Next week in hell （chapter 1） #3
Although judging by the amused expression James is trying and failing to hide, he is definitely going to bring this up later.
The attention gradually shifts away from me as Mr. Albert begins explaining the assignment.
Sketchbooks reopen, pencils return to paper, and the room settles into the quiet rhythm that seems to define creative spaces.
As I open my own sketchbook, I study the room again but this time with less anxiety and more curiosity.
Sunlight spills across the wooden floors in wide golden rectangles, illuminating shelves crowded with brushes and paint tubes.
The atmosphere feels completely different from the rest of Weststar.
Out in the hallways, everything is designed to impress with it's polished floors, expensive uniforms and carefully curated smiles, all of it performance.
But here the contrast with all the unfinished paintings lean against walls, charcoal smudges scatter across worktables, forgotten sketches are pinned haphazardly to cork boards.
Mr. Albert places an old stone sculpture on a platform near the front and instructs everyone to focus on proportions, perspective, and shadow work.
While several students immediately begin sketching, I spend a few moments simply observing the object first following every curve, every crack in the stone, every shadow created by the afternoon sunlight before allowing my pencil to touch the page.
It is a habit my mother taught me when I was younger.
Don't draw what you think you see. Draw what is actually there.
The memory arrives so suddenly that my chest tightens.
For a brief moment, I can almost hear her voice.
I can picture her sitting beside me at our tiny kitchen table, a pencil tucked behind one ear while she gently corrected the way I held mine.
She had never been formally trained, never attended prestigious art schools or exhibited her work in galleries, yet she had always possessed an instinctive understanding of beauty that no classroom could have taught.
She used to tell me that most people never really looked at the world.
They glanced. They assumed. They rushed past details.
Artists paid attention.
The thought lingers as I finally begin sketching.
Slowly, the rest of the room fades. All that remains is the sculpture in front of me and the familiar movement of graphite across paper.
There is something strangely comforting about the process.
Every line leads naturally into the next, every shadow slowly finds its place and before long the constant noise that has occupied my mind all morning begins to quiet.
Time moves differently whenever I draw. Minutes blend together.
Thoughts become softer and my Problems become smaller.
For the first time all day, I am not thinking about whether I belong at Weststar or not .
I am simply drawing.Which is probably why I don't notice someone standing beside my desk until a voice interrupts my concentration.
"Interesting."
My pencil slips slightly across the page.
When I notice that Mr. Albert is standing next to my desk.
For a brief moment, panic flares inside me there is something uniquely terrifying about a teacher silently observing your work without saying anything.
The longer he remains silent, the more convinced I become that he has found something horribly wrong with my sketch.
Instead, he continues studying the page with an expression impossible to read.
Several seconds pass. Then several more.
By the time he finally speaks, I have already prepared myself for criticism.
"The shadows are strong." His gaze remains fixed on the drawing. "That wasn't what I expected. You understand where the light is coming from which is more than I can say for some students who have been in this classroom all year."
For a second, I am not entirely sure I have heard him correctly.
"Oh."
Brilliant response, Sophia.
Mr. Albert's mouth twitches slightly, as though trying not to smile
"Who was your teacher before?"
"My mother sir, she taught me when I was younger."The words leave my mouth before I can stop them. Immediately something shifts in his expression
"She was an artist?"He asks surprised.
And for a moment, I don't know how to answer. Because the truth is complicated. My mother had wanted to be an artist. She had dreamed about it, talked about it, filled sketchbooks with ideas and plans she always promised she would finish one day. Life had simply gotten in her way
"She wanted to be," I say softly.
Mr . Albert nods once and returns his attention to the rest of the classroom without asking another question.
The silence he leaves behind feels strangely considerate.
Grief isn't something you recover from. It isn't an illness, it isn't a broken bone.
You don't wake up one morning and discover it is finally gone.
Instead, it settles quietly inside you and learns how to coexist with everything else.
Most days it stays hidden beneath ordinary life, but every now and then something unexpected brushes against an old memory and suddenly it is there again as vivid as it has ever been.
I stare down at my drawing for a moment longer before forcing myself to focus on the assignment.