His Dirty Little Secret
“After everything… I’m proud you’re here. Paint what you survived. Paint what you chose.”
The words landed like sunlight on old wounds. A faint sob escaped before I could stop it—small, shaky, the kind that came when kindness still felt dangerous. Tears welled, spilling over as I hugged her back. “Thank you,” I whispered, voice cracking. “I… I almost didn’t believe I could do this. She always said art was frivolous. That I’d never be good enough.”
Professor Reyes pulled back, hands on my shoulders, eyes fierce. “She was wrong. About everything. You’re here because you fought for it. Now show us what that fight looks like on canvas.”
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