Your Own Art

Friday, 2:00 PM. My pen stops on the tablet. The cover art for the publisher is in its final stages. Just a couple of minor details to polish, and it will be ready to send. The rain stopped yesterday, and long shafts of sunlight stretch through the living room window. It is the second-to-last day of May. Beyond the glass, the world is a vibrant, fresh green.

Around this time last year, living on the outskirts of my previous city, I would have felt the heavy, lingering humidity rising after the rain. But here on the second floor of the villa, the sunlight reaches deep, and the breeze is drier. It is the same month of May, but the texture of the air is entirely different. I look at the dining table. A bottle of Chilean wine still sits on one side. It has been there for over a month. The table is relatively tidy. The heavy air that seeped in yesterday when I went out to meet Seojin in the rain has completely cleared out today.

My phone vibrates.

I regret it the moment I send it. Once again, I reflexively told her to come over and talk.

I turn off the tablet. I wipe down the dining table. I dry the mugs once more. About an hour later, the doorbell rings. Several times in rapid succession. Dain's signature arrival signal. I open the door. Dain is standing there. It looks like she came straight from school. She is wearing an oversized sweatshirt and bare legs. Two hairpins are in her hair. She holds her bag in her hand. Traces of paint are smudged on her fingertips. Her eyes are red.

"Oppa..."

"Come in."

Dain walks in and practically throws her bag onto a dining chair before collapsing into the seat next to it. Her hair carries the scent of the outdoors—that distinct smell of someone who has just come from campus. It takes about an hour to walk from school to the villa. I can tell she spent that entire hour rolling words around in her head. She probably thought she would start with a neat, well-rehearsed summary once she arrived. Instead, all her composure crumbles, and she simply blurts out, "Oppa, seriously..."

I pour a glass of warm water and place it in front of her. "Drink."

"Oppa, seriously..." Dain wraps both hands around the mug. Her fingers are trembling. She probably thinks she is ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠hiding it.

"What ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠did the professor say?"

"...My art style."

"What about it?"

"'This is exactly Siru's style. There's no individuality. Paint your own pictures.'" Dain mimics the professor's tone. "...And they said it right in front of all my friends."

She takes a sip of water. Her lips tremble against the rim of the mug.

"Show me."

"...Do you think so too, Oppa?"

"Show me."

Dain pulls her tablet out of her bag, along with some prints. Two A3-sized sheets. It is an art school assignment: a composite of a figure and a background. The figure is a half-body profile, and the background is an empty living room bathed in sunlight. I look at the screen, then at the prints.

The background is excellent. The line of sunlight falling across the corner of the living room is warm. She utilized the negative space beautifully. The tone is calm, and the spatial composition is seamless. Looking at the background alone, it is a piece she could proudly show anywhere.

The problem is the figure. The lines of the figure are Siru's. They are my lines. The shading on the tip of the nose, the shadows at the fingertips, the flow of the hair strands. The angle from the shoulder to the arm. Dain has observed my style from too close a distance, and she ended up copying it exactly. The time we spent working together on the game characters has come back to trip her up today. The background and the figure clash. The background has the tone Dain established, but the figure has Siru's tone. It looks as though two different people drew within the same frame. It is no wonder the professor had to point it out.

"Oppa."

"Yeah?"

"It's a total disaster, isn't it?"

"Sit down."

I guide Dain back into her chair. I place the two prints side by side on the dining table. "Look here."

Dain looks.

"This background. The angle of the sunlight. The shadow in the corner of the room. The ratio of negative space. Siru can't do this."

"...?"

"Siru's background tones are much colder. But you made yours warm. This is your unique touch."

Dain lowers her gaze to the prints. Her hand twitches slightly on the table.

"But the figure..."

"The figure is in Siru's tone."

"...Yeah."

"It's because you followed Siru's lines for the figure. Since you went with Siru's tone for the character, the background and the figure don't match."

Dain bites her lip. "Oppa."

"Yeah?"

"I'm not... completely devoid of talent, right?"

"Your drawing is not Siru's drawing."

Dain lifts her head. Her eyes are brimming with tears, though she forces herself not to let them fall.

"It's your drawing."

A beat of silence.

"Don't follow Siru's style. You can do things that Siru can't."

Dain closes her mouth, then opens it again. "...Really?"

"Really."

"But Oppa, you are Siru."

"That's why I know. You can do what I can't."

Dain looks at the prints once more. The sunlight she drew. The negative space she composed. The living room tones she painted. These were parts of her work she had never once considered good. She had been so focused on chasing Siru's style that she failed to see what she was already doing exceptionally well. Today was the first time she realized her own unique touch was right there.

Her hand trembles. She probably thinks she is keeping it steady. She places her hand on top of the print. Over her own drawing. The trace of paint on her fingertip briefly brushes the paper.

I place my hand over Dain's wrist. Just for a moment. It is the hand of a mentor. Nothing more.

"You can redraw it."

"...Yes."

"Bring me a new drawing by next week. Draw the figure in your own style."

Dain lets out a small laugh, caught somewhere between a chuckle and a sob. "...I'll redraw it."

The dining table falls quiet for a moment. The sunlight casts long shadows across the prints. A rumbling sound comes from Dain's direction. She pretends not to hear it.

"Want some ramyun?"

"...How did you know?"

"It came from your stomach."

Dain covers her face with both hands. Her ears are bright red.

I head to the kitchen. I cook the ramyun. This is only the second time I've cooked ramyun for this girl who usually survives on instant cup noodles, the first being that late night of the deadline. That was in the early hours of the morning, and today is the afternoon. I boil the water, add the noodles and soup base, and crack in two eggs. Dain likes her ramyun with the yolks broken and swirled in.

"Oppa."

"Yeah?"

"Thank you."

"For the ramyun?"

"...That too."

The ramyun boils. I let the foam settle, transfer it to a bowl, and set it on the table. The yolks are beautifully swirled into yellow circles. Dain picks up her chopsticks. She takes a bite.

"It's delicious."

"It's the same every time."

"It's delicious every time."

The corners of Dain's mouth lift slightly. Her expression has softened, moving away from the tense discussion about her art.

Just then, the doorbell rings. It is Yuri. I open the door. Yuri is standing there, holding a small yellow bag. Behind her, Seojin stands in the hallway. Her gaze is fixed on the floor. I can see a lingering trace of awkwardness in her posture.

"Mister, I came for our promise from yesterday!" Yuri clings to my leg. Ah, right. Yesterday, when I met them in the rain, I told her we would see each other again soon.

"Hey there, Yuri."

Seojin takes a step forward. Her eyes are still half-cast toward the floor. "Siu, I'm so sorry... but could you watch Yuri for just a moment? Just five minutes."

"Of course."

Seojin gives a quick nod and disappears toward the stairs. The events of the night before last still hang slightly between us. Even so, the thawing that began when I met her in the rain yesterday seems to have progressed another step today.

"Dain Unni!"

"Yuri!"

Dain looks up from her ramyun bowl and stands up from her chair. She opens her arms, and Yuri runs over to leap into her embrace. Dain spins Yuri around. Yuri giggles brightly.

"What are you eating, Unni?"

"Ramyun."

"Just one bite for Yuri!"

"Just one bite."

Dain lifts a single strand of noodle with her chopsticks and feeds it to Yuri. Yuri opens her mouth in a perfect circle and slurps it up.

"It's yummy!"

"Right?" Dain laughs.

Her expression is entirely different from thirty minutes ago when we were talking about her art. Dain's tone changes when she connects with people. It is a face of Dain I haven't seen today. She looks a step younger than her twenty-two years, yet at the same time, a step more resilient.

"Unni, you have something on your hand!" Yuri points to the paint smudge on Dain's fingertip.

"This? It's because I was drawing."

"Drawing? What kind of drawing?"

"Hmm... a drawing of sunlight."

"Sunlight?"

"Yeah. Sunlight coming into a living room."

Yuri looks toward the living room window. Right on cue, the sunlight stretches all the way to the dining table. The afternoon sun of the second-to-last day of May. Its texture is remarkably similar to the living room sunlight Dain drew.

"Like this?"

"Something like this."

"Are you good at drawing, Unni?"

Dain pauses for a beat. Her gaze briefly drifts to the print on the dining table.

"...Oppa says I'm good."

"Mister said so? Then you must be really good."

Yuri's five-year-old logic is simple. If the mister says so, then it is so.

Dain lets out a laugh. A girl who had never once said she was good at drawing with her own mouth has heard it validated through someone else's today.

About five minutes later, there is another knock. No, not a knock. The doorbell rings. A long, gentle ring. Seojin. I open the door.

"Yuri, let's go."

"Mom, Mister ate ramyun with Dain Unni!"

"Oh, really?"

"Yuri had a bite too!"

Seojin chuckles softly. Her eyes briefly drift up to meet mine. Just for a fleeting beat.

"Thank you, Siu."

"Sure."

"...I ran your jacket through the washing machine. I'll give it back to you tomorrow."

"Okay. No rush."

Seojin picks Yuri up and disappears down the hallway. The door to Room 202 closes.

Only Dain and I are left in the living room. The sunlight has shifted another step across the dining table. Dain finishes the rest of her ramyun.

"Oppa, you're seriously the best."

"Why?"

"Even Yuri loves you so much."

"...It's nothing."

Not knowing how to respond, I simply place my hand on Dain's head for a moment before letting go. Dain finishes her ramyun, down to the very last drop of broth. She packs up her bag. She leaves one of the prints behind, intentionally taking it out of her bag. The very first piece she drew that received true validation. Leaving it with me feels like a natural progression of her feelings.

Another piece of paper remains on the dining table. It is a note left by Dain. A single line written in her small, rounded handwriting.

The handwriting is the same as the note Dain left before. Back then, it said, "Thank you, Oppa ♡". Today, the heart is gone, and the final line closes with quiet determination.

"Oppa."

"Yeah?"

"Please look at my drawing again when I'm done."

"I will."

"...Seriously."

"I will."

Dain looks at her note one more time. She stares at the period at the end of her sentence for a beat, then pulls her eyes away. It is the gesture of someone double-checking the line they just wrote. Then, she opens the door.

"I'm leaving."

"Get home safe."

"Oppa."

"Yeah?"

"...Thank you for today, too."

Dain tosses that last line over her shoulder and closes the door. Usually, her goodbye was something like, "See you next time." Today, it is a different farewell. She might have said it unconsciously, or perhaps she knew exactly what she was doing.

I move the note Dain left on the dining table today over to my desk. There are already two notes sitting there. One is the note Seojin left a little over a month ago. Next to it is the note Dain left about a month ago. I place Dain's note from today in the third spot, aligning them.

Seojin's handwriting is neat and rounded. Dain's is small and rounded. The heart next to Dain's handwriting from a month ago is round and slightly crooked. Today's note from Dain has no heart.

Three pieces of paper lie side by side on the desk. The traces of two people have converged on a single desk at the same time. Seojin's single line from a month ago. Dain's heart from a month ago. Dain's determination from today.

The growth of a person over the span of a single month is captured in the ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠subtle shift between those two notes. A period has taken the place of a heart. While the handwriting itself is almost identical, that single punctuation mark at the end reveals how much she has matured.

My phone vibrates.

A brief silence. I wait a moment to see if another message will follow. None does. I set my phone down. Two ramyun bowls remain on the dining table. I wash them. Two bowls and two mugs. Today, Dain found her own art. She took a step out of Siru's shadow. She will redraw it in her own style. Next week, Dain will be a different person than she is today. That is how she grows, one step at a time.

I sit in the center of the room. On my desk, Seojin's single note and Dain's two notes lie side by side. On the dining table, a bottle of wine. The two ramyun bowls have been washed and left to dry upside down. The sunlight has reached a step deeper through the living room window. I pick up the pen over my tablet once more. The final details find their way to my fingertips. I resume working on the cover art. My fingertips linger on the tablet for about another hour. The three notes rest quietly on the desk as the sunlight slowly shifts, step by step, across the room. It is the gentle transition of the afternoon of the second-to-last day of May slowly fading into evening.

Next week, Dain will bring me a figure drawn in her own style. She will close the catalog of Siru's works, acting as if she has never laid eyes on Siru's art. How that very first piece will take shape within her is entirely up to her. I draw the final line to finish the cover. My fingertips linger on the tablet for one last moment before lifting. Today's work is complete. The sunlight stretches even longer across the living room. It falls upon the edge of the print Dain left behind. The note from a month ago had a heart, but today's note does not. Dain has grown a little more resilient over the past month. I am the only one who has witnessed this subtle change from her side. I will not speak of it. Keeping quiet and letting it be is the duty of a mentor. I turn my gaze back to my desk. Today's work draws to a peaceful close.