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I graduated from high school not too long ago.

The reason I gave up on going to college was quite damp, yet extremely realistic. I wasn't really the type of person who suited something like entrance exams.

.

.

Ah.

I wonder if saying that sounds a bit like an excuse.

Anyway.

My perfectionism was a terrible match for entrance exams, where you have to chew and swallow failure and frustration over and over again.

And of all things, what I chose was art.

Despite having no right answer, it was graded every day, and the phrase 'you drew well' was always followed by 'better than whom'. Paintings were hung in a row on the wall. The sizes of the papers were similar, the heights of the frames were similar, and even the expressions of the people standing in front of them evaluating the art were mostly similar.

My painting was among them. Strangely, only mine looked like it was caught in the rain. All the other paintings were perfectly fine.

Only mine was soaking wet, as if the paint were dripping down.

Of course, it wasn't actually like that. It means I was that fragile back then.

At first, I thought I just needed to do a little better.

I thought I just had to draw the next painting better, be less nervous for the next exam, and be a little less hurt by the next evaluation.

So I kept pushing it to the 'next' time.

Being okay. Saying it's hard.

From a certain point, sitting in front of a painting became harder than actually drawing it.

My fingertips turned cold when I held a pencil, and my stomach turned if I looked at a blank sheet of paper for too long.

I got indigestion when I ate, and my heart raced when I slept. Even on days when I did nothing, my body was as tired as someone constantly being chased by something.

At the hospital, they said 'stress' several times. I didn't like that word very much.

Stress.

Because it's such a convenient word. It took years for a person to slowly break down, but it could be shortened into a single word.

In the end, I quit with a few applications left.

To be precise, I don't know if I quit first, or if my body abandoned me first.

I received a bouquet on graduation day. I took a few photos too. I looked quite alright in the photos. Humans are truly fascinating.

Even if you haven't been able to eat properly for days and were curled up in pain every night, you can smile when a camera is pointed at your face.

Maybe that's why I think nobody knew.

No.

Even if they knew, would anything have changed? Our house was always that kind of place.

I rarely had to give anything up because of a lack of money.

Academy fees were never late, and I could buy most things if I said I needed them.

I had my own room, the heating worked well in the winter, and there was always food in the fridge.

So I grew up quite well-off. At least, looking only at the numbers on paper.

However, strangely, there were no people in our house. My mother left home after falling in love with someone else. I don't know exactly when it started.

Children know less than you think, and more than you think.

The change in perfume. Going out to the balcony often to take calls. Not eating dinner at home starting from a certain day.

And the day she really didn't come back.

I only remember that much.

My father raised me. He made sure I lacked nothing. I think that phrase is very strange.

To lack nothing.

Since there was food, clothes, and money, it was probably true.

So me saying I was lonely felt a bit like the complaints of a spoiled child.

It was also ambiguous to say I wasn't loved.

Money came in on my birthdays, and I was told I could buy what I wanted if my grades went up.

My father didn't hate me. He probably loved me. It's just that neither of us really knew how to do that. So in our house, love mostly came via bank transfer.

I grew up without much complaint either.

To be precise, I grew up thinking I shouldn't have complaints. Because there are many people in the world who have it harder than me.

I have money. I have a house. It's true.

I soothed myself with those words for a long time.

But strangely, it seems that even if a person keeps saying they're okay, they don't actually become okay.

After graduation, the days became very long. When I opened my eyes in the morning, there was nothing to do. To be exact, there was nothing I could do.

My friends talked about college.

How they joined the freshman group chat, how they should plan their timetables, who they were going to see at the festival.

I smiled appropriately while listening to those stories. If you asked if I was envious...

Well. A little bit.

But if you asked if I'd do the entrance exams again, the answer was set.

No. I won't.

Part of it was because saying I 'won't' hurt my pride a little less than saying I 'can't'.

Everyone said you have to go to college to properly enjoy your youth.

That you're only twenty once, and there are many things you can't do unless you're a college student. Every time I hear that, it's a bit funny.

I don't even know if I'm qualified to enjoy something like youth in the first place. Turning twenty didn't suddenly make me a new person.

I received a diploma, but I was still the same person as last year, my stomach hurt in the morning, when I looked in the mirror, I looked for things to fix first, and if someone complimented me, I thought it was because they hadn't discovered my flaws yet.

Lately, I don't even draw well.

Sometimes I sit at my desk and try to hold a pencil, but after drawing one line, I become afraid of the next one.

Because I feel like I'll ruin it.

In the end, I close it, leaving only one small line in the corner of the white paper. In the past, I hated unfinished paintings. Now, the number of paintings I haven't even started is growing.

Because that's safer. Because I can avoid ruining them.

To be honest, I don't know what I should do right now.

Some people told me to go on a trip, some told me to try exercising, and some told me to do nothing and just rest well.

Among those, the last one was the hardest.

When I'm doing nothing, someone in my head keeps asking.

. .

So, what are you going to be now?

Every time that happens, I can't answer. It's not that I've stopped having things I want to be.

I still want to draw when I see something beautiful.

So maybe...

It's not completely over.

But the current me was closer to someone who had held their breath for too long and had to learn how to breathe all over again. But I don't even know how to do that alone.

It's not like anyone teaches you.

Waking up in the morning and eating, opening the curtains when the sunlight hits, resting when my body hurts, thinking I did well when I actually did something well.

Things that other people do without a second thought are strangely difficult for me lately. So these days, instead of a grand future, I think about very small things.

Should I try to eat at least one proper meal tomorrow? Should I organize the pile of medicine envelopes? Should I open the curtains that have been closed for days?

And. If possible.

Should I try eating a meal with someone?

Trivial things.

If it were the old me, I might have looked down on someone who called these things 'goals'.

But now I know.

That a person starting to live again begins with things much more trivial than one might think.

I don't know if I can start that yet, but...

. .

At that time, I didn't know.

That soon, someone would come into my life.

Someone who would nag me after seeing the food I left uneaten, who would recklessly open the curtains I kept closed all day, who would knock on my door when the light was still on at three in the morning,

and that every time I said nonchalantly,

"I'm just like this,"

there would be someone who refuses to believe those words.

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