My mind wandered back to the days with Jaxon in college.
Back in the day, he had been scraping the bottom of the barrel academically, but nobody could touch his work ethic.
To afford his paints and brushes, he pinched every penny. There and then, he would sketch commissions on the side to make ends meet. His art? It had soul, but the big shots would tear him down every chance they got. He would chuckle and say he had to level up his game, that he would rise above the noise and the naysayers. That was what had drawn me to him.
I would tag along for 30-cent buns and 50-cent packs of ramen just to be near him.
He thought I was in the same boat, scrimping and saving, so sometimes he would splurge what little he had on a barbecue or a hearty beef stew for the two of us.
However, at some point, something in him shifted. He started chasing vanity, got caught up in the rat race, lost his drive—and his art lost its spark. It turned bland, just run-of-the-mill.
My dad noticed that I had cl
