Chapter 2

I didn't sleep all night.

That phrase from last night—"unless I end it myself"—kept echoing in my mind like a curse, driving me through the endless hours of darkness.

When the lunch bell rang, I knew it was time.

I walked mechanically toward the school's highest rooftop. No one ever went there—it was the perfect place.

My hand gripped the craft knife in my backpack tightly, my palm already soaked with sweat. Sunlight streamed through the hallway windows onto the floor, creating patches of light and shadow, just like those endless light-and-shadow exercises in Dad's studio that never seemed to end.

I pushed open the rooftop door, and the afternoon breeze hit my face.

It was quiet here, with only the distant noise of traffic. I walked to a corner where there was an abandoned storage box—a place where I could quietly... end everything.

"Finally... it can all be over."

I sat behind the storage box, trembling as I pulled out the sharp craft knife. The blade gleamed coldly in the afternoon sunlight, as piercing as the fury in Dad's eyes.

I looked at my wrist, still bearing yesterday's bruises—marks left by Dad's ruler when he beat me viciously for drawing a single line wrong. Now, I was going to add fresh wounds to these marks.

"I'm sorry, Mom..." I closed my eyes, my voice scattered by the wind. "I really can't hold on anymore."

The moment the blade touched my skin, a sharp pain shot through me. Blood droplets seeped from the wound, falling onto the gray ground like bright red paint.

I took a deep breath, preparing to press down hard—

"Hey!"

A voice came from the rooftop entrance.

I opened my eyes in terror and saw a tall figure striding quickly toward me. He was carrying a drawing board, apparently having come to the rooftop to sketch the scenery.

Through the blinding sunlight, I could see a pair of clear blue eyes filled with shock.

"My God! Put down that knife!" The boy rushed over and unhesitatingly snatched the craft knife from my hand.

Before I could react, he had crouched down, seen the blood on my wrist, and immediately tore a piece from his T-shirt.

"Don't move, let me bandage this for you." His voice was so gentle I wondered if I was dreaming.

Because this was the first time in my fourteen years I'd heard such gentle words.

I knew him—Alex Turner, that upperclassman who was always drawing funny comics in the art room. Apparently he came to the rooftop to paint too.

"Why did you..." My voice was so hoarse I could barely speak.

Alex carefully bandaged my wound with the fabric strip, his movements as gentle as if he were handling a precious piece of art. Apart from Mom's careful ministrations when she secretly treated my wounds, I had never experienced such tenderness.

"Because nothing is worth doing this to yourself." He looked up, those blue eyes meeting mine directly. "No matter what's happened, it's not worth it."

I stared at him blankly, my mind completely empty. In my world, there were only Dad's roars, Mom's tears, and endless, painful training. I never knew anyone could speak to me in such a tone.

"I'm Alex Turner," he said while bandaging, "I know you, Canvas Collins, that genius girl who's always painting alone in the art room. I often see you practicing there, but you're always by yourself, never talking to anyone."

I was stunned. He'd been watching me all along?

"I study art too," Alex continued, "but I think painting should be joyful. Every time I see the expression on your face when you paint, it breaks my heart—you look completely unhappy."

Joyful?

I had almost forgotten the meaning of that word. In my memory, painting was only pain, blood, and endless demands for perfection.

"Why... why did you save me?" I finally found my voice.

Alex stopped his movements and looked at me seriously. "Because of your eyes."

"My eyes?" I instinctively touched my face. Dad always said my gaze was too weak, not determined enough.

"There's light in your eyes," Alex said. "Even though it's clouded by sadness now, I can see it. That kind of light only artists have—it shouldn't be extinguished."

This was the first time anyone had described me this way.

In Dad's eyes, I was just a tool—a tool to prove his educational philosophy, a tool to help him achieve his dreams. But this boy said there was light in my eyes.

"And besides..." Alex glanced at his drawing board, "when I saw you just now, sitting there like that, you looked like a painting of sorrow. Even in your most painful moment, you still have an artist's quality about you. That kind of beauty shouldn't disappear."

I looked at his drawing board, which showed a half-finished sky and clouds, with free-flowing lines full of vitality.

Completely different from the "perfect" works I was forced to create.

"Your wound is still bleeding," Alex said with concern, looking at my wrist. "We need to get this treated right away."

He stood up and extended his hand to me. "Come on, I'll go with you to the nurse's office."

I looked at his outstretched hand and hesitated for a long time. Apart from Dad's forceful pulling, I had never voluntarily held anyone's hand, especially not a boy's.

Finally, I reached out my trembling hand and grasped his.

That hand was warm and strong, giving me a sense of security I'd never experienced.

On the way from the rooftop to the nurse's office, Alex carefully supported me the entire time. This feeling of being cared for was both foreign and warm.

In the nurse's office, the school nurse simply treated my wound. Alex stayed by my side the whole time, occasionally asking with concern how I felt.

"Does it hurt?" he asked.

I shook my head. Compared to the pain Dad inflicted on me, this small wound was nothing. I was used to pain, used to bleeding, used to swallowing all my suffering.

After leaving the nurse's office, Alex brought me to an empty classroom.

"Want to see something interesting?" He pulled out a thick sketchbook from his backpack. "These are some things I draw in my spare time."

He opened the sketchbook, and my world was instantly turned upside down.

It was full of funny cartoon characters—aliens with three eyes, dancing pencils, and dinosaurs wearing ballet tutus.

These drawings completely overturned my understanding of art.

In my world, painting had to be serious, accurate, perfect. Every stroke had to be carefully considered, every line had to conform to proper proportions, every shadow had to be precise to the millimeter. Draw one line wrong, and you'd get a beating.

But Alex's drawings were full of wild imagination and pure joy.

"This is my self-portrait," Alex pointed to a funny little figure wearing a beret. "Pretty ugly, right?"

I stared at that little figure for a long time. It was crooked and completely disproportionate—by Dad's standards, it was absolute garbage.

But... but it looked so happy.

Suddenly, the corners of my mouth turned up uncontrollably.

Then, I smiled.

It was the first genuine smile from my heart in ten years.