They call it talent, the way my hands move across the canvas, how colors spill and merge as if they’ve always known where they belong. But they don’t see the truth, do they? The truth is, it isn’t talent—it’s theft.

Every stroke, every shade, every nuance—I’ve stolen it all. Not from other painters, no, but from the world itself. The light dancing on a cracked windowpane, the bruised hue of the sky before a storm, the shadow that lingers just a moment too long under someone’s eyes. These things aren’t mine to capture, yet I take them. I take them because I have to.

You see, I’m not painting what I see. I’m painting what I’ve felt in moments too fleeting to hold. That’s the trick. People think the artist is someone who reproduces beauty, but that’s a lie. What I paint isn’t beauty. It’s absence. It’s longing. It’s the ghost of something that no longer exists.

I remember the first time I realized this—when my brush moved faster than my thoughts, and something emerged that I couldn’t explain. It was a face. Familiar. Too familiar. The curve of a jawline I’d only seen in the moments before sleep, the faintest shadow of a smile that haunted my childhood. It was my father’s face. A face I hadn’t seen in years. A face I swore I’d forgotten.

But there it was, staring back at me from the canvas. Every detail so precise it felt like I’d summoned him. That was the moment I knew—I wasn’t painting reality. I was painting memory. And memories, as beautiful as they are, lie.

The canvas doesn’t forgive. It doesn’t flatter or compromise. It reveals. And every piece I create is a confession of things I wish I could forget.

They don’t see it, of course. The critics, the collectors—they’ll marvel at the textures, the technique. They’ll write long, winding essays about the interplay of light and darkness, the "raw emotionality" of my work. But they won’t see me. Not the real me. Not the trembling hands, the sleepless nights, the whispers of doubt that come with every stroke.

I envy them, in a way. To look at my paintings and see only beauty—what a luxury. To stand before a cathedral of someone else’s pain and call it art.

I wonder, sometimes, what it would be like to paint something without meaning. Just once. To pick up the brush and not feel the weight of every mistake I’ve ever made. To let the colors speak for themselves, instead of dragging my soul screaming onto the canvas.

But that’s the thing about being a painter. You’re not creating something new. You’re excavating what’s already there, buried beneath the surface. The canvas is your mirror, and it always tells the truth, even when you don’t want it to.

So no, it isn’t talent. It’s survival. Every painting is a map of the places I’ve been, the things I’ve lost, and the truths I’m too afraid to speak aloud.

And if they see beauty in that, well… maybe they’re the real artists.

Even though that’s the reality, I’m still determined to succeed as a painter. Surprisingly, it’s not my family rooting for me the most—it’s a friend. Lilian. She believes in me more than anyone else, more than even I sometimes do. But I don’t feel bitter about my family’s indifference. I’ve learned to accept it. Life is simpler when you stop expecting what isn’t there.

“Come on, let’s get some fresh air. Take a break,” she said. It was Lilian. She has this way of showing up at exactly the wrong time—and exactly when I need her. She likes me, romantically speaking, but I’ve already told her the truth: I don’t feel the same. I don’t feel that way about anyone. I thought that would scare her off, but instead, she insisted we stay friends, vowing to support my dreams. Over time, she’s become like family, the kind you choose for yourself.

“Hey, look at you,” she said again, standing too close to the easel. I didn’t answer, too engrossed in what I was doing. She sighed. “You need to rest already. This isn’t healthy.”

I stayed silent. My focus was glued to the canvas. Every stroke, every angle—it all had to be perfect. As of now, I was in the middle of creating the piece for the exhibit. This wasn’t just another painting. This was the painting. It would define me, announce my existence to a room full of strangers who’d otherwise never notice I was there.

The trouble is, perfection doesn’t come easily. The color palette was tormenting me. Should I go for the stark vibrancy of cadmium yellow, or let ochre’s subtle warmth carry the weight of the light? And the lines—I’d sketched and erased them so many times, I swore the canvas would rebel against me. Every decision felt monumental, as though one wrong move could doom the whole piece.

The painting wasn’t just a project. It was a battleground, and I refused to lose.

“You go ahead,” I finally said, not even sparing her a glance. My eyes stayed locked on the canvas, where the image was starting to take shape. The faintest hint of movement in the composition whispered something meaningful—but not yet loud enough. Not yet perfect. Not yet finished.

Lilian didn’t argue. She just lingered for a moment before leaving, her footsteps soft and hesitant. I’d make it up to her later, maybe. Right now, there was only the painting, the brush in my hand, and the unshakable need to get it right.

No.

She’s right.

Maybe a little rest will help. Then I’d go back to it, refreshed and ready.

“No,” I said, stopping her just as she turned to leave. “Let’s go.” I stood, wiping my hands clean on a rag and setting it aside.

Outside, the air was crisp—not freezing, but cold enough to make me wrap my arms around myself. We headed to the convenience store, our usual escape. It was a simple routine: grab snacks, get drinks, sit, and just exist for a while.

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I didn’t expect it, but it was… calming. I’d always thought stepping away from work, even briefly, was a waste of time. A pain, really. But sitting there with Lilian, sipping on a can of coffee under the dull glow of the store’s fluorescent lights—it wasn’t so bad. For once, my head wasn’t racing with thoughts of perfect brushstrokes or haunting deadlines.

“What’s your plan after this?” she asked, breaking the silence. She was talking about the exhibit, the one that felt like it had swallowed my entire existence.

I thought about it for a moment, my fingers idly tracing the condensation on my drink. “I don’t know,” I admitted. “The future isn’t something I can map out. It’s not like painting, you know? But…” I paused, letting the thought settle. “If I keep going, if I don’t stop, I think I can get there. Wherever there is.”

She nodded, her expression thoughtful but soft. That was Lilian—she always listened like every word mattered.

I leaned back, shifting the focus away from myself. “What about you?” I asked. “How’s your mom doing?”

Her gaze dropped slightly, and she took a small sip of her drink before answering. “She’s hanging in there. The cancer hasn’t spread, at least not yet, but the treatments… they’re rough. She’s exhausted most days.”

I didn’t say anything at first, letting her words settle. Then, quietly, I asked, “And you? How are you holding up?”

She let out a soft laugh, but there was no humor in it. “It’s not about me, Eduard. She’s the one going through it.”

“That doesn’t mean it’s not hard for you,” I said, meeting her gaze. “Being strong for someone else doesn’t mean you don’t get to feel it, too.”

She shrugged, her fingers fiddling with the tab of her drink. “I just… I don’t want her to see me break. I’m scared if she sees that, she’ll lose hope.”

“She won’t,” I said firmly. “You’re doing more for her than you realize. Just by being there.”

She gave me a small smile, one that felt too heavy for her face. “Thanks,” she murmured.

For a while, we just sat there, the conversation fading into the quiet hum of the city around us. Sometimes words weren’t necessary. Sometimes, just being there was enough.

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After I walked her home, the work continued.

The snack we shared was enough to skip dinner, saving me the time I’d otherwise waste cooking or eating. That extra time, I told myself, was better spent in front of the canvas. Tonight wasn’t about comfort—it was about work.

I sat down, brush in hand, staring at the blank canvas like it was some kind of duel. The first few strokes came quickly, like instinct. A shape emerged, then lines, then something that almost looked like progress. But the more I worked, the less it felt right.

I wiped it clean and started again.

This time, I slowed down, thinking through every stroke. The more I tried to control it, though, the worse it looked. I tried harder, more deliberate, more careful. But when I stepped back, it was worse than the first attempt.

Another wipe.

My hands were trembling now, not with effort but with frustration. No matter how much I willed it, the image in my mind wouldn’t transfer to the canvas. Every attempt mocked me, each failure felt like a slap.

Time became slippery. Minutes, hours—I couldn’t tell. All I knew was the ache in my neck and the stiffness in my fingers. My head throbbed from lack of sleep, like someone was tightening a vise around my skull. I squinted at the canvas, but the colors blurred together.

I pushed forward. I always do. Giving up wasn’t an option. Not for me.

“Just a little more,” I muttered under my breath, dipping the brush into the paint again. But my hands wouldn’t cooperate. My eyelids felt heavier with every second. I clenched my jaw, willing myself to keep going.

But at some point, I lost the fight.

I didn’t even realize when it happened, but I must have dozed off because suddenly, I wasn’t in my studio anymore.

I was in a room I hadn’t seen in years. My childhood bedroom. The walls were peeling, and the window was smudged with dirt. The air was suffocating, the kind of stale that clung to you like guilt.

And there she was. My mother.

She stood in the doorway, her arms crossed, staring at me with the same expression she always wore—half-disappointment, half-disgust. “What a waste,” she said, her voice sharp and cutting. “You’ve always been useless. Cursed. Why couldn’t I have had a normal child?”

I wanted to scream, to shout back, to tell her she was wrong. But no sound came out. I was frozen, trapped in her judgment like a bug under a magnifying glass.

“You think you’ll make something of yourself with this painting nonsense?” she continued, her voice dripping with disdain. “You’ll fail. Just like you always do.”

I tried to move, to run, to escape the room, but the walls seemed to close in around me. The air grew heavier, pressing down on my chest, until—

I woke up.

The studio was dark, the only light coming from the faint glow of the streetlamp outside. My head ached, my neck stiff from falling asleep at an awkward angle.

The canvas sat in front of me, mocking me with its half-finished mess of lines and smudges.

I swallowed hard, wiping the sweat from my forehead. My hands shook as I reached for the brush again. Failure or not, cursed or not, I just... I couldn’t stop.

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It was a week of grinding. Seven days of relentless brainstorming, searching for a theme, a subject worth painting. Some days felt off, like I was chasing a shadow that always stayed just out of reach. Other days, the weight of it all nearly crushed me. My head was a battlefield of doubt and overthinking.

But eventually, I stumbled on a realization that broke through the distractions—a realization as simple as it was profound. My masterpiece didn’t need to be perfect. It just needed to be honest.

That single thought rewired everything.

Perfection was a lie I’d been chasing, but honesty? Honesty was raw, unpolished, and undeniably real. And if I could put that on the canvas—if I could capture something so deeply true that it hurt—then maybe, just maybe, it would be enough.

I sat down at the easel with a clarity I hadn’t felt in weeks. My hands moved instinctively, every brushstroke carrying more weight than the last. The image came together slowly, piece by piece, like a puzzle only I could solve.

The painting became a close-up of a child’s eyes. Not just any eyes—mine. Or at least, they could’ve been. They were wide, filled with pain and longing, as if pleading with the world to notice something, anything.

In the glossy reflection of those eyes, I painted fragments of a childhood I couldn’t forget. In one corner, a shadowed figure loomed, hand raised, its presence heavy with anger. Abuse. The kind that leaves invisible scars. In another, a lonely child sat by a window, staring out at the world he didn’t belong to. Isolation.

And then, almost hidden, a fleeting moment of happiness—a tiny hand gripping a pencil, drawing on scraps of paper. Hope. The smallest flicker of light in an otherwise dark existence.

Each reflection told a story, and together they formed the truth of who I was, who I had been.

I stepped back after the final stroke, my chest tight, my breath shallow. The painting was staring back at me, those eyes locking me in place.

This was it.

The Eyes of a Child.

I wasn’t looking at a painting—I was looking at me. All of it. The pain, the longing, the hope. And it wasn’t perfect, not by a long shot. But it was honest.

"This was… it?"

The words barely escaped my lips, a whisper more than a statement. My knees buckled, and I felt the ground rushing up to meet me. My vision blurred, the edges darkening like ink spreading across paper. Everything became weightless and heavy all at once.

The floor was cold, each breath more painful than the last, and I couldn’t tell if it was my body giving up or my mind refusing to accept what was happening.

Is this how it ends? I thought. Not with some...great ending huh? not with glory, but with me collapsing in a studio.

I forced my eyes upward, the last bit of strength draining from me. And there it was—the painting. Eyes of a Child. Those eyes seemed to watch me, not with judgment, but with sorrow.

The last thing I’ll leave behind.

I felt a surge of regret. Not for the life I’d lived—I’d accepted its pain long ago—but for the things I wouldn’t get to do. The canvases I’d never fill, the truths I’d never tell. But even that regret began to fade, slipping away like sand through my fingers.

The room darkened.

And then, just as everything turned black, a light appeared.

No, not a light.

A screen.

It suddenly appeared, a familiar bright light. Letters and numbers was across its surface, forming words that were impossible but unmistakable.

FINDING HOST…

My body was gone, yet I was still me. Floating. Thinking. Alive?

HOST FOUND. INITIALIZING TRANSFER.

A surge of energy rippled through what remained of me. Memories suddenly  flashed like a slideshow, disjointed but vivid. My mother’s face, twisted in anger. The brush in my hand the first time I painted. The cold nights when I clung to scraps of hope. The piece, those eyes staring back at me.

TRANSFERRING ALL MEMORIES.

Each memory, every moment, was being stored, cataloged, preserved. It was as if my life had been nothing more than data waiting to be processed.

INTEGRATION COMPLETE.

WELCOME TO A NEW WORLD.