The bench was cold beneath me, a sharp contrast to the warmth of the winning season. I sat there, my sketchbook resting on my lap, watching leaves skitter across the path. Beside me, my brother Samuel scrolled through his phone, maybe checking the news or updates online. We’ve been very close our whole lives, but right now, his distraction was pissing me off.
“So, you are really moving halfway across the country for your art school,” he said, not looking up, still focused on his phone. “You have got a good place here. Why neglect it?”
I stared at the leaves, my sketchbook still untouched on my lap. With a calm voice, I replied, “this is very necessary and I need to do it.”
He finally raised his head, meeting my eyes. “So you want to be a stabbing artist, you know that right? Mum and dad are not in support of this.”
At that moment, I swallowed my anger. I’d heard it before, the talk of authenticity, the safe job, the safe life I was leaving behind. It was what made everyone anxious about my decision.
But every time I picked up that pencil to sketch life into that book, every time I lost myself drawing my heart away, it gave me a feeling that a normal office job could never provide. Art school wasn’t just a dream, it was the air I breathed, what I was grasping for.
“I’m not seeking for approval,” I said. “Why is this sketching on my book? Although I’m still scared, I can still pretend that this is who I am and this is what I want to be.”
Samuel went quiet. The wind blew, filling the space left between us. He didn’t fully understand, and he wasn’t yet in support of my plans. But that was okay. I made the choices for myself, and I needed no explanation. My heart was shaking, but my hands were ready. I was ready to face what lies ahead in the future.
It is not a debate. I have made my choice.
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