The morning sunlight filtered through the half-open window, casting a golden streak across my cluttered desk. My brushes were scattered, a half-finished sketch stared back at me, and beside it lay my tablet, humming softly with the unfinished edits I had been obsessing over for days. I sighed, running a hand through my messy hair. Another day, another reminder that the world outside my art didn't quite understand me.
I'm Ruvan. A normal guy—or at least, that's what people would call me. I live in a modest, middle-class household, where rules are clear and dreams are often put on hold for "practicality." My parents have always had a plan for me: school, college, job, stability. Nothing wrong with that, except for one thing—I paint, I edit, I create. And they don't see any value in it.
"Ruvan! Are you still in there?" my mother's voice called from downstairs, sharp and impatient. "Breakfast is getting cold, and you know your father doesn't like waiting!"
I tucked my sketch into a folder and forced a smile. "Coming, Ma!" I replied, my voice quieter than I wanted. Painting weren't crimes, yet somehow, in their eyes, they were.
The dining table felt suffocating, filled with the clatter of cutlery and conversation I wasn't a part of. My father's sharp eyes scanned me as I sat down. "Ruvan, you really should focus on something more… practical. When will you think about your future?"
I wanted to shout, to tell him that my future was already unfolding on canvas and screen, that the colors I mixed and the edits I layered were my way of surviving in a world that didn't understand me. But I swallowed the words, nodding politely. "Yes, Dad."
Once breakfast ended, I retreated to my room—the only place that felt like mine. Surrounded by my sketches, my digital edits, and the faint smell of paint, I finally exhaled. Here, I was free. Here, I could be myself. But even here, the pressure lingered, whispering that passion alone might not be enough.
I opened my tablet and began editing a short clip I had been working on for hours, the movements precise, almost obsessive. Every frame mattered, every detail screamed for perfection. My heart raced as I imagined it shared online, the world finally seeing the art I had struggled so long to create.
And yet… I couldn't shake the feeling that no matter how hard I tried, the world, and sometimes even my own home, would always try to dim the light I carried inside me.
But I didn't care—not yet. I would fight. I would create. Even if it meant facing trials beyond measure.