If my memory serves me right, it's been about a year since you came to our academy.

I didn't think much of it when you first arrived. Even when you were in the seat next to me, even when you handed me a candy and asked to be friends, I didn't feel anything special; I just thought of you as a friend.

It was about a month later, wasn't it? The day we were doing still-life sketches.

Since you were right next to me, I just happened to glance, unintentionally, at your drawing—

—and you were drawing something so perfect.

Even though it was just the base colors, without the lines cleaned up or the shading properly added yet, it was a drawing that commanded attention.

Looking at you then, I realized it. The words I could never have, the words I could never hear.

So this is what they call "talent." That's what I felt.

I became lethargic. I used to feel good when a sketch turned out the way I liked, or when I bought new brushes, or when I felt satisfied coloring with pretty paints—I did—!

But no matter how hard I try and try again, seeing myself draw things that can't even reach your shadow makes me feel so miserable—!!

...I know. I already know how ugly these feelings are. But every time you look at my drawings and say you like them, it feels like you're mocking me...!

The teachers who criticize my work so harshly are so incredibly kind when they praise you and give you feedback, and I really, truly hate seeing that!

It's re—ally funny, isn't it? You haven't done anything wrong, yet here I am making a scene all by myself.

But... still... as the days of coming home soaked in inferiority and crying pile up one by one, it's hard, it's exhausting, and I'm becoming more and more miserable, so what am I supposed to do...

......I can't draw a single thing.