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“It looks good, so don’t worry about it.”
Those words were what Akito had told Ena when she was 9 years old, staring in disdain at the art she had been working on for the past two hours. He had walked in and seen her crestfallen expression, offering blunt reassurance. Even so, his sister had only muttered in response.
“What are you talking about?” Ena gestured vaguely to her paper, and its crooked shapes and uneven linework. The inaccurate proportions and faulty shading glared at her. “Don’t you see? It’s all wrong. I’m a bad artist.”
The statement wasn’t self-deprecating—surely, it was a simple fact. Still, Akito sighed.
“You’re being too hard on yourself,” he complained. “There’s no one who’s bad at art.”
He shook his head and left her room, apparently not finding the matter worth any more of his time. But Ena sat in silence, continuing to gaze at her creation. Akito’s words echoed in her mind and she imagined them flowing from her pen like ink, into her strokes and into her drawing.
There's no one who's bad at art.
She picked up the piece of paper and with a bit of tape, stuck it onto the wall, displaying it for everyone to see later.
Ena’s steps were light as she bounced down the stairs.
“Dad!” she called to him, even before she reached the bottom of the stairwell and entered the living room. Her father was on the couch, attention captured by a television program. He turned his head slightly, watching her in his peripheral vision.
“What?”
Ena presented her sketchbook—which she had been hiding behind her back—flipped to the page with her latest endeavor. She had improved quite a bit, she realized, because the hands were no longer amorphous blobs, instead taking the shape of distinct fingers and nails.
“So,” she began, her giddy smile revealing everything she expected to hear, “what do you think?”
In contrast, his visage was neutral. He tilted his head, analyzing her sketch. His silence only heightened his daughter’s anticipation. Finally, he spoke.
“Why are you showing this to me?”
Ena’s grin faltered.
“What… what do you mean, ‘why?’ Because I made it, see? It took a lot of work,” she emphasized, trying to get her point across. “Aren’t… aren’t you proud of me?”
“If it took you a lot of work to make something like that, then you’ll never become an artist.”
Ena’s eyes widened. Her father turned back to the TV, ending the conversation and stopping her from saying anything else. Not that she could’ve. She held her sketchbook tightly, staring at what she previously considered to be her masterpiece. Quietly, she crept back up the stairs and locked the door to her room.
"There’s no one who's bad at art," she whispered to herself, ripping out the page in her sketchbook to start anew.
“That is everything. I expect more from you all tomorrow.”
With those words, Yukihira-sensei’s class began to pack up. Pencils and brushes were tucked away into bags, chairs pushed in. A few students gave a servile bow to their teacher and began walking out the door, while others immediately pushed past to ask for additional advice. Ena grabbed her backpack, ready to leave, but someone suddenly tapped her shoulder.
“Ena-chan?” a small voice asked. “Do you want to walk home together?”
She turned around. Futaba stood behind her, with worry in her eyes.
“Futaba…?” Ena wanted to ask why she looked so scared, but she changed her mind. “Sure, I guess.”
The two exited the building quietly, the rustling of art supplies in their bags the only noise. The unease still didn’t leave Futaba’s face. A cool breeze blew, a few leaves falling from the trees overhead and landing in Ena’s hair. She brushed them away, annoyed.
“...have you noticed there’s less people coming to art class?”
Ena blinked.
“Huh?”
“They should’ve been all over the place,” Futaba said. “There used to be more of Yukihira-sensei’s students. But now…” she paused, “they’ve all disappeared.”
Ena felt nervous laughter bubble up in her throat.
“‘Disappeared?’” she echoed. “You make it sound like things’ve got too tough…”
Yukihira-sensei had been extra harsh lately. Even his usual blunt remarks had somehow started hurting more, cutting deeper into insecurities. Nothing pleased him.
Or maybe, it only seemed that way to Ena.
“Well, it’s spring, so everyone is busy enjoying the flowers, right?” She fumbled for a plausible excuse. “Besides, why would anyone quit? There’s no one who’s bad at art!”
“...mm, you’re probably right. They must be busy,” Futaba affirmed, becoming quiet again. If she noticed Ena’s lie, she didn’t say anything. They kept walking.
Pencil. Draw a line. Eraser. Get rid of it. Try again.
Ena erased the same section for the twelfth time. The rest of her drawing was smudged from how often she kept moving her hand up and down with her eraser. It was already ruined.
“This is so stupid…!” Ena threw her pencil against the wall and heard a crack. “Shit, that was really expensive.” She buried her head in her hands. “Why is this so difficult…?”
“Ena, everything alright?” Static accompanied Mizuki’s concerned voice from the Nightcord voice chat. Oh, she wasn’t muted. “Take a break, maybe. We don’t need to get this song out until next week.”
“I know…” said Ena, defeated. “But still…”
“Do you want us to take a look?” Kanade suggested. "Maybe another pair of eyes might help.”
Mafuyu chimed in, “I finished the lyrics, so I have time too.”
Begrudgingly, Ena snapped a photo of what she had so far. “It’s still a rough draft,” she clarified as she sent it to the rest of the group.
Mizuki, Kanade, and Mafuyu didn’t say anything. Were they still opening the file? Was it so terrible that they were rendered speechless? Ena was at the edge of her seat, fidgeting with her skirt.
“So, what do you think…”
“Ena, it looks really good!” Mizuki gave their feedback first. “I can’t believe you were upset about this!”
“Mizuki’s right,” agreed Kanade. “Even though it’s a rough draft, the shapes are clean. I can almost visualize the final product in my head.”
“Is that so…?” Ena replied.
Mafuyu was silent.
“Hey, Mafuyu…”
“I like it.”
Ena sputtered, taken aback. “Wh—!?”
“See, even Mafuyu likes it. It looks great!” exclaimed Mizuki. “You’re getting better, Ena.”
Everyone muted themselves, getting back to work. Ena didn’t forget to mute her mic too, so N25 wouldn’t end up hearing another one of her outbursts. Looking at her paper, she smiled.
It looks good. The shapes are clean. They like it.
The words piled up, blurring into a warm feeling.
You’re getting better.
Ena bit her lip. Why did it feel like all of N25 had left her in the dust? Kanade’s compositions were amazing, Mafuyu’s lyrics spoke to a person’s heart, and Mizuki’s MVs fascinated the eye. Compared to them, she was “getting better.” Even if she kept learning and continued drawing, no matter how virtuous her heart was, no matter what they said, surely, she’d be left behind…
“This is nothing…” Ena whispered, staring at her art. “I’m… nothing.”
There’s no one who’s bad at art.
6 likes. No comments.
“Are you serious…?” How was her art getting no recognition?
Ena double tapped the icon and switched to her personal account. Thousands and thousands of selfies and images of pancakes flooded her vision, with thousands and thousand of likes and comments to match.
@enalover430
you’re so pretty omg
@distant_smile
your SKIN is so clear girl slayyy
@bug.in.your.heart
gorgeous, just gorgeous !!
2505 likes. 827 comments.
It wasn’t fair.
She searched up the keyword “artist” on her social media and clicked on the first profile, reading the bio. Maybe if she took inspiration, she could gain a higher following…
maya / professional artist / currently working on my own manga
She clicked another one.
I am a professional artist. email here: [email protected]
And another.
professional artist named ai! I make art for magazines~
Ena kept scrolling. Every account with a large following that she clicked on had the words “professional artist.” Attached to every post were the most beautiful artworks she’s seen in her life.
“Amazing… is this what I have to be… a professional artist?” Frowning, Ena searched up her own username. Her page was bland in comparison. The colors weren’t as vibrant, the quality was more pixelated, and she didn’t feel any sense of wonder. She tried to imagine someone describing her as a “professional artist.”
A new notification popped up on her screen. It was from her personal account.
@enanan, new comment from @rustedcutlery
I love all your selfies!! ur like a piece of art cause WOW
“Like a piece of art…”
Ena scoffed.
“Like a piece of art… how ironic… Art… art… I’m a useless person because I can’t be an artist.” Her tears plopped onto her phone screen. “There’s nobody—absolutely nobody—who looks forward to what I draw. It doesn’t matter…! Even if I love art, how can I draw like this? When I’m surrounded by better artists, who I can’t help but hate…”
There’s no one who’s bad at art.
“That’s right,” she laughed bitterly. “Because they all just disappear. They always have… even me. In the end, if you’re not good enough, you have no choice…”
Knock knock.
Ena stirred from sleep. What time was it?
“—na? Are you awake?”
Akito knocked on her door again.
“Coming…” she stumbled to the door and opened it.
“Geez, you look terrible,” Akito stated. He eyed her messy hair and pajamas.
She sneered. “Thanks for saying the obvious.”
He held out a plastic bag towards her. She raised her eyebrow at him. Did he seriously wake her just for this?
“If you’re expecting something in return again, I—”
“Ena,” Akito interrupted, smiling, “happy 17th birthday.” He pushed the bag into her hands.
“...”
She peered inside. There was a present wrapped in brown paper. Ena stole a glance at her brother, as if she was asking whether or not she was allowed to open it. He nodded. She tore the wrapping and felt the coolness of metal beneath her fingers. Ena rotated it in her hands and saw the words on the front.
“These are…” she gulped. “Akito, these pencils are from a really pricey brand, you know…?”
“I know,” he said. “But you’ve been running out. Um, so I thought you might want more for your birthday, I dunno.” He scratched his head awkwardly.
“No, it’s great, it’s just…” Ena averted her eyes. “I don’t know if I can use these…”
“Why not?”
“…can someone like me—” she shut her mouth. “Nothing, sorry. Thank you for the gift.”
Akito’s eyes narrowed.
“Finish your sentence.”
“No, I don’t think I’m going to,” she answered, challenging him with childish authority. “Good night.” Ena was about to slam the door on him.
“Ena, wait—” He caught the door with his hand, barging into her room.
“Hey!”
“—what’s wrong?” Akito questioned. “Do you not like it?” She shook her head. “Then, why are you upset?”
“Why do you care? It doesn’t matter.”
“Of course it matters, Ena. You’re my sister, and it’s your birthday—”
“I can’t use these,” she blurted out. “I’m… not an artist. I’m sorry if I wasted your money.”
“Not… an artist?” Akito processed her words. “Ena, you’re the most artistic person I know.”
Ena wiped her eyes with her sleeve, feeling herself flush at the realization she was crying in front of him. “It doesn’t matter. I’m not good enough. I’m not… good at art. I’m bad at art.” Her cheeks were wet.
“That’s nonsense,” retorted Akito. “There’s no one who’s bad at art, especially not you.”
There’s no one who’s bad at art.
She’s heard that phrase so many times and each instance, it drove a knife into her heart. She couldn’t stop disappointing others and she certainly couldn’t stop disappointing herself.
Akito, back then… he had said it so earnestly that she believed him. She had hung up her drawing on her wall. She was proud of it.
“No one…” she mumbled to herself.
There was no doubt that it was long gone now. Ena cleaned out her room regularly, throwing old sketches and WIPs in the trash. Whatever she had displayed on her wall hadn’t been worthy of being kept. But maybe… maybe she could try again. And create something that she could be proud of.
“Ena?” Akito’s voice snapped her out of her thoughts.
“Yeah, of course. Thanks, Akito.” Ena pushed him out of her room. “Now, go away! I’m going to draw with these pencils.” He was too shocked at her sudden attitude change to fight back. She shut the door, locking it so nobody else would pester her.
Ena plopped into her chair and started sketching. She imagined her hopes and aspirations for the future flowing from her pencil, into her strokes and into her art.
Some day, she would become an artist everyone could admire.