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i might have made a mistake, hitoka thinks. things are not supposed to happen this way. or perhaps thinking has been the mistake of the matter in the past weeks of her steadily changing life. alternatively, hitoka feels quite thrown inside out and sewn with the wrong sides together; a half-rational mind trying to stitch up the mismatched patches of pale skin with sullen, trembling hands. but even that unwarranted realization is lost to the foreign sensation blooming in her stomach. this should mean butterflies, not the needled promises of a panic attack. hitoka's more certain it's the latter.
it's not the same as the former three years she's painstakingly lived through. back then she was different: hitoka, bright-eyed golden child, soft-spoken model student and creative extraordinaire. back then, she quietly excelled across all figures of art and academics in high school, always returning home with the gilded joys of achiever medals and a top-of-the-nation college recommendation. even more than enough, she loved it all: the satisfaction of learning, toils of art process, and the outcomes she's delivered bathing in peer praise and recognition.
it was those prideful moments that made hitoka feel less . . . guilty, an omnipresent emotion she just can't articulate, but somehow it worked things out for her. maybe it was that very hidden self-doubt sewn into hitoka's gentle heart keeping her grounded: always, always a timid young girl in spite of all her preceding secondary education bravado. but that was back then.
now, she shakily thinks, where did all of that go?
frustration bleeds out of the slender, lithe frame of the flaxen-haired girl’s body. it rolls off in waves, spilling through the threaded seams of her fraying sensibilities. it's that cold trickle of frustration that ebbs across the silence of her monochrome room bathed in dim orange. through her peripheral vision hitoka can almost make out the mocking glint of her medals suspended through the wall frame.
see, in art school, they don't teach you how to feel content: eventually you always strive for the best, the show-stopping, the perfect. all or nothing.
releasing her unsteady grip on the embroidery thread, hitoka sighs, leaving the blank tapestry on the study table. the project is due two days ahead, but she can barely find it in herself to dedicate hours on brainstorming for what a masterpiece should look like. just like always, the evening has worn itself thin without getting anything done. hitoka cards her red-knuckled fingers into her hair, sighing into the deaf silence of her room.
the soundlessness breaks with a knock.
"hitoka, darling," the slow, gentle croon of her mother's voice echoes behind her bedroom door, "did you order this package of oils?"
the burnt-out college student stumbles to open the door. as expected, hitoka is greeted by her grimacing mother. she relents, wordlessly fetching the box from her mother's thin hands.
"darling," she prods, trailing behind as her daughter walks through the mess of fabric and sewing kit tools haphazardly scattered on the bedroom floor. "we already talked about this."
"and i told you, it's okay, mom. the commissions are going smoothly and i'll earn something by the end of this week."
tipping out of her lips with resigned frustration: it was a lie. if she were the same high school kid inspired with radiant ambition hitoka'd be disappointed for not admitting her weaknesses, especially to the only family she's ever held dearest. but with the fraying sensibilities of her actual mediocrity, hitoka's bravado took the entire blow. because who'd even dream of commissioning a small, silly artist with a half-baked desire to create and improve in art? her ignited affinities for pastimes and art have begun to blur, her newborn disillusion overthrowing expressionism along with the warmth it once provided. all that spark's now merely a cloud of smoke dissipating at groundzero and hitoka feels numb.
the last time she's painted with ease she was happily seventeen and naive. now she swipes on oil pigments to a canvas and hopes for the best.
"i know university is hard, darling. but you know you can always ask me for what you need, right?"
i don't know what i need.
"i need a break," of course, hitoka doesn't say that.
see, madoka yachi may have been the most supportive person throughout hitoka's existence, but it never meant she understood hitoka. there was a lot she's yet to uncover, like her inglorious daughter's alarmingly frequent breakdowns and the death of her once unrivaled sense of purpose, among many, many other secrets tucked away into the semidark of her room. hitoka desperately wants to fold into herself.
so finally, when madoka's careworn smile and soothing voice spirals away, it's radio silence that tucks her to an unmade bed, the void of sound lingering like acrid miasma. she listens, all naught except for the hollow ringing in her ears. hitoka closes her eyes. what she sees is light flowing out of the stitches. slicing through the grays, not quite illuminating anything.
that night, hitoka isn't able to sleep for the fourth time in a row.
✧
"what does a pretty painting make you feel?"
"i don't know. profound, perhaps. or envy."
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NOTES a lil short n bittersweet! i might or might not characterize yachi as a sweet bubbly kid,,, what are your thoughts?
