Since the day I descended into vice, my existence became spectral.
I was no longer a boy, nor even a person. I was a shell; mute, compliant, soulless. A body to be used. A name replaced by things spat through clenched teeth and grinning mouths. Dirty slut. Toilet boy. They called me those and worse, words I once flinched at, then learned to ignore. The only currency that mattered now was flesh, and mine was always up for sale.
I used to believe I'd sold my soul to escape. But I'd only pawned it for survival.
Every act, every transaction, drained me further, eroding what little sense of self I had left. What began as desperation turned into routine, a pattern of grim compliance that dulled my edges until I didn't recognize myself anymore.
And so, I made a vow.
No attachments. No names. No roots. I would not belong to anyone, anywhere, ever again. Everyone in this life was passing through, myself most of all.
Yet even in the bleakest corners of my world, some ember flickered on. A fragile longing. A childlike wish that hadn't quite died. I wanted… purity. Something untouched. Something real.
Art.
In the quiet moments between jobs, I found myself sketching again. Parks, trees, skies. Things that didn't ask questions. Things that never touched back. I didn't know why I still reached for the brush, only that it made me feel less like a ghost.
It was during one of those afternoons, in the waning light of a lonely park, that she appeared.
"Don't you think painting nature is more relaxing than sketching a portrait?" a voice asked, sudden and warm.
I glanced up. A girl stood beside me, her shoulder-length hair swaying, a wide smile playing on her face as if she had always belonged in the scene I was painting.
"I guess…" I murmured, uncertain.
"Right? Nature can never be wrong."
I didn't respond. I returned to my work, filling my A5 sketchbook with the hush of trees. But she didn't go. Her presence was curious, not invasive. Bright, not blinding.
"You know," she continued, crouching beside me, "I've been watching you for a while. I was wondering if you'd like to join my club."
That was how I met Nanase.
She was the founder of a nearly imaginary club—the Nature Art Club. A cultural group with big dreams and only three members. To be officially recognized, she needed one more.
I said no.
Then no again.
And again.
But Nanase… didn't know how to give up. Her persistence wasn't pushy. It was gentle, like rain that seeps into the cracks you didn't know existed. Eventually, I said yes—not out of interest, but because I was tired of resisting.
I never expected that small "yes" to change anything.
But suddenly, I had a seat at a desk. A title as vice president, because no one else would take it. A schedule. A reason to show up.
We were nobodies. Barely funded. The teachers barely remembered our club name. But day after day, I stayed. I sketched. I planned. I filled out paperwork. I sat through meetings. Somewhere along the way, the club wasn't just a placeholder.
It became… something I wanted to protect.
I used what little money I had to buy supplies. I skipped shifts just to finish poster designs. I worked late into the night preparing panels, trying to match Nanase's tireless optimism.
And then one day, she stood up in the clubroom—our tiny room crammed with paint-splattered desks and torn bulletin boards—and beamed.
"Yeah, an art exhibition. That's our goal!" she declared.
"If it's a success," said one of the members, "we might attract more students."
"And get a bigger budget!" another chimed in.
"Then we could get good references for college applications."
"Are we going to hold it during the school festival?"
"Of course!" Nanase grinned. "We should get ready, then."
The air buzzed with excitement. Plans bloomed like wildflowers—color themes, guest lists, budget proposals. We had nothing, and yet somehow, we felt rich. For the first time in years, I didn't feel like I was being used. I felt seen. Like I mattered.
And so, I gave everything to it. Every line I drew, every panel I painted, was a cry for a future I still half-believed I didn't deserve. But I wanted to believe. Even just for now.
I didn't see the fall coming.
I was too focused on the colour palettes, the lighting angles, the hand-lettered signs. I didn't realize how fragile my world was—how easily it could be ripped apart.
But the past never stays buried for long.
And in its shadow, even the brightest clubroom light can begin to flicker.