Aiko’s Struggles with Criticism

Aiko sat alone on a bench just outside the university's art building, her sketchbook resting unopened on her lap. Around her, early autumn leaves rustled in the wind, brushing against the pavement like whispers she couldn't quiet. The sky was overcast, soft gray clouds casting a pale light over the campus. It felt like the world itself had dimmed to match her mood.

Only an hour ago, she had stood in front of her peers, presenting her latest piece to a circle of classmates and Professor Mizuno—a woman known for her sharp gaze and sharper tongue. Aiko had poured two weeks of quiet labor into that canvas: a muted watercolor of a childhood memory, delicate and filled with emotion. She had thought, just maybe, it would touch someone else the way it touched her.

But the critique had been less than kind.

"It lacks clarity," someone had said.

"The emotion doesn't land," another classmate offered, his voice detached, as if commenting on a dish he didn't care for.

And Mizuno—whose words Aiko had hoped would carry even a hint of encouragement—had simply said, "Sentiment without discipline becomes indulgence."

Aiko hadn't known what to say. Her heart had thudded in her ears, drowning out the rest of the session. She'd nodded along, pretending to take notes, her cheeks burning under the weight of restrained tears.

Now, seated on the quiet bench, she looked down at her hands—stained faintly with blue paint from earlier that morning—and wondered if she had misunderstood everything. Had her work really been that flawed? Was her voice as an artist not strong enough? Or worse—was it simply not worth hearing?

She drew in a shaky breath. The wind tugged at the ends of her scarf, and she pulled it tighter around her neck, as if trying to hold herself together.

Footsteps approached. She didn't look up at first.

"Aiko?"

Haruto's voice was low, concerned.

She lifted her eyes slowly. He stood there, wearing his usual dark hoodie, his satchel slung carelessly over his shoulder. He looked like he had run the whole way—his hair slightly tousled, his breathing a little fast.

"I heard," he said gently. "One of the astronomy kids was in the art building and saw you leave early."

Aiko looked away, her throat tightening.

"I'm fine," she said, too quickly.

He sat beside her, not speaking for a long moment.

"You don't have to be," he said eventually.

That broke something in her. Her shoulders dropped slightly, and a tear slipped down her cheek. She turned her head away, embarrassed.

"I just thought it mattered," she whispered. "I thought I was finally creating something that felt like me. But they didn't see it. None of them did."

Haruto was quiet, but his hand found hers, warm and steady.

"They didn't see it," he said. "But that doesn't mean it wasn't there."

She sniffed, brushing her face with the edge of her sleeve. "Then why do their words hurt so much?"

"Because you care," he said. "And because putting yourself into something—really putting your heart into it—means the criticism doesn't just hit the work. It hits you."

Aiko nodded slowly. "I want to get better. I want to be strong enough to hear those things and learn from them. But right now, all I want to do is tear that painting apart."

Haruto looked at her for a long moment.

"Do you remember the first stargazing project I did?" he asked.

She blinked. "The one in first semester? With the constellation chart?"

He nodded. "My professor told me it looked like I'd copied it from a textbook. Said there was no passion in it. No originality."

"But it wasn't," Aiko said softly.

"I know. I spent nights under the sky sketching those positions by hand. But all he saw was data."

Aiko's grip tightened slightly on his fingers.

"What did you do?"

"I cried," he said with a small, self-deprecating smile. "Then I went home and made it again. This time with mistakes, with messy emotion, with stars that weren't perfectly plotted. And he noticed. He didn't praise it—but he noticed."

Aiko looked at him. "So I should try again?"

"You don't have to do anything tonight," Haruto said. "Just let yourself feel it. Then, when you're ready—paint again. Not for them. For you."

For a long while, neither of them moved. The wind passed gently through the trees above them, golden leaves twirling down like soft confessions.

"I think," Aiko said slowly, "I'm scared that I'm not good enough. That I never will be."

Haruto leaned closer, his voice barely above a whisper. "You're already more than enough. The rest is just growth."

She closed her eyes, letting his words settle in the aching part of her heart. It wasn't that the pain had disappeared, but it was no longer sharp. It was something she could carry now, something she could turn into another brushstroke, another story.

She opened her sketchbook. The pages were blank, but somehow, they no longer felt accusing. She picked up her pencil, and without thinking too much, began to draw. Not to impress. Not to prove. Just to begin again.

Haruto watched silently, his presence quiet but grounding.

The sky above remained gray, but inside her heart, a small warmth sparked—fragile, yet persistent. The kind of light that could survive even the harshest critique.