You’ve never been good at art.

That’s just the truth—at least, that’s what everyone says. The girls in your class all seem to have a natural grace to them. Their lines are confident, their colors soft and layered like petals. They move through P.E. and art class with an ease you’ve never felt in your body, or in your hands.

You always figured it had something to do with being left-handed.

Still, that didn’t stop the comments. The quiet sighs, the little jokes, the sideways glances. You heard them all.

“You're not even trying.” “Maybe if you stopped daydreaming and actually did the work.” “She just wants attention.”

You tried to stay invisible in Professor Choi’s class. He was the kind of teacher people paid attention to—the kind whose silence carried more weight than most people’s shouting. You’d never heard him raise his voice. He didn’t need to. There was something about the way he looked at a canvas—like it mattered more than what anyone else thought of it—that made you wish you could see your work the way he saw his.

But today was different.

When you walked into the classroom that morning, about twenty large canvases stood waiting like blank doors to another world. At the center of the room, tall and strange under the soft light, was a statue you’d never seen before—abstract, elegant, its form like a question mark frozen in motion.

Professor Choi stood beside it, hands clasped behind his back.

“A local museum donated it,” he said. “You’ll have three hours. Same angle, same light source. No tracing. No copying. Only seeing.”

Your stomach dropped.

Three hours later, your canvas was... a mess. You hadn’t even finished. The form was wrong. The colors were off. No matter how many times you looked at the statue, your hand just wouldn’t cooperate. Meanwhile, the other girls painted like they were born to do it.

But when time was up and he walked past each canvas, asking everyone to stand beside their work, you wanted to disappear. Yours was last. Of course it was.

And when the girls laughed—softly at first, then not-so-softly—you felt that familiar burn behind your eyes.

“It doesn’t even look like anything,” one whispered.

“She probably did it with her eyes closed,” another giggled.

Professor Choi said nothing. He dismissed the class with a simple nod.

“You’re all dismissed.”

You packed your things slowly, waiting for him to leave too. Teachers always did. But he didn’t.

Instead, he stood beside your canvas, his gaze unreadable. Then, softly:

“Stay a little longer. Let’s look at it together.”

You froze.

You didn’t know what to say. Was this going to be another lecture? Another quiet disappointment? Still, something in his voice—calm, unhurried—made it hard to say no. So you nodded.

Now, the room is quiet.

It’s just you, the unfinished painting, and Professor Choi standing nearby. Not too close. Not far either.

You try not to look at him. You don’t want to see the disappointment in his face.

But he doesn’t sound disappointed.

“I didn’t help you during class,” he says, “not because I didn’t see you struggling. But because I needed to see how you struggle.”

You glance at him. His eyes aren’t on the canvas. They’re on you.

“There was only honesty. You didn’t try to impress anyone. You just… tried. Even when it didn’t work. That matters.”