Day 18
Day 18 - April 18, 2024
The Weight of the Light
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The fluorescent light above me hummed with a hollow life, casting a sterile glow across the empty office like a stage light over a forgotten actor. Tick. Tick. Tick. The wall clock beat on like a merciless drum, each second another reminder that time didn't stop, not even for the broken. And I was broken.
Still, I remained unmoved.
Same chair. Same desk. Same goddamn position since that disastrous meeting. I hadn't even bothered to fix the collar of my shirt that had twisted uncomfortably hours ago. Mikami's words echoed in my mind, corrosive and cold.
"You're not there yet," he had said, his voice like steel scraping against glass. "Maybe you never will be."
It clung to me. Poison in my bloodstream. Doubt wrapped around my chest like a vise. I had tried,God, I had tried to prove myself. To belong. To earn this place, this dream, this desk. Not just for myself, but for the ones who believed in me when I couldn't.
Hiroshi, for all his exaggerated drama and flair, had always seen something in me. Behind his eye rolls and flamboyant complaints, there was belief; raw, stubborn belief that I was more than the sum of my failures.
And Airi… Airi had been the light when all I had left was dusk. She had stayed beside me in moments when even I couldn't stand to face myself. Through every stumble, every breakdown, she remained. She never asked for proof of my worth. She simply believed in it.
She believed in me.
I ran a hand through my hair, knuckles scraping my temple as if pain could drown out the noise in my head. Something flickered inside me. Small. Fragile. Like a spark from a dying fire. But it was enough. Enough to make my fingers twitch. Enough to make me reach for the pencil again.
I couldn't walk away. Not now. Not like this.
I pulled another blank sheet toward me. The stack beside me had dwindled to nothing but failures, half-formed ideas, crossed-out concepts, discarded thoughts. I had been at this for hours, maybe more. Time had become a blur of graphite, eraser shavings, and frustration.
But now… now I drew.
I sketched until morning crept in, slow and golden through the blinds, illuminating the battlefield around me. Crumpled papers littered the floor like fallen soldiers. Coffee-stained mugs lined the edge of the desk, the bitter stench clinging to the air. My hand ached. My back screamed. My eyes burned. But something inside me refused to stop.
If tomorrow brought rejection again, so be it. I would face it with something in my hand, my vision, my idea, my fight. I had poured everything into it. If I failed, at least I wouldn't have walked away without trying again.
By the time I stood, my knees nearly buckled. My legs had stiffened from being still too long. I grabbed my work; my sleepless, desperate creation and stumbled out of the room like a man possessed.
The hallway outside Shibata's office stretched longer than it ever had. My heart pounded in my ears. My steps were uneven, dragged down by exhaustion, but still I moved.
Better to show up with something than to show up with nothing.
I knocked.
Silence.
Then, "Come in."
I entered.
Mr. Shibata sat at his desk, as though he'd never left. His eyes, piercing and unreadable, lifted to meet mine. For a moment, he said nothing. Just stared. Like he was expecting me. Like he'd known I'd return.
I stepped forward and held out the portfolio, fingers trembling. "I've… made some revisions," I managed to say, voice hoarse.
His brow arched. He didn't smile. Just stood and snatched the sheets from my hand, flipping through them with a quick, practiced rhythm. His expression didn't change at first. I held my breath.
And then… it shifted.
A flicker of irritation. A flash of something darker. His grip tightened, and in the next second, before I could even react;
The papers flew.
My work, everything I'd poured into that night, scattered across the room like confetti at a cruel celebration. My mouth opened, but nothing came out. My voice was gone. My soul went still.
"YOU CAN DO MORE THAN THIS, BOY!" he bellowed, eyes burning. "THIS?! THIS IS ALL YOU'VE GOT?! I KNOW YOU WON'T LET ME DOWN, RIGHT?!"
His voice cracked the air, louder than thunder, sharp enough to slice through skin. My ears rang. I froze, rooted to the floor like a statue. My vision blurred. I blinked, and tears welled. I looked away. I couldn't bear to meet his gaze.
I stared at the floor. At the papers that lay like wounded dreams around me.
I had thought it was enough.
I had thought I was enough.
But again, I had failed.
When I returned to my desk, the world felt dimmer.
The bright fluorescent light above me still shone too brightly, exposing the eraser residue across the table, the clutter of notes, the trail of despair I had left the night before. I sat in the same chair. At the same table. In the same damn office.
I lowered my head into my hands. My shoulders trembled, not from cold, but from the weight of it all. My body begged me to stop. To rest. To admit defeat. But my heart… my heart refused to let go.
I could still hear Airi's voice in my mind, soft but firm.
"You don't have to be perfect. Just don't stop."
I closed my eyes.
I could still see Hiroshi grinning at me through a cloud of sarcasm.
"If you crash and burn, at least do it with style."
They believed in me.
How could I let that go to waste?
I looked at the mess around me. At the scattered notes and ink-stained hands. At the half-empty coffee cup still steaming with bitter hope. My fingers found the pencil again. My mind, battered and bruised, reached deep into itself.
And I began again.
Not because I had strength left.
But because I didn't know how to stop.
Because something inside me, call it stubbornness, call it fire, call it madness refused to let this be the end.
I would not let my failures define me.
Not when I had come this far.
Not when people still believed.
Not when I still believed no matter how faint, no matter how fragile, that I could rise again.
And so I sketched.
Not for praise. Not for perfection.
But for the person I was still becoming.
And this time… I wouldn't let go.