The week starts like any other.
I sit in Prof. Tyson's lecture hall with my sketchbook open, though I'm not really drawing. He's talking about visual storytelling—how color palettes can shape mood, how texture evokes memory, how composition breathes life into stillness. It's not new to me, but somehow the way he says it still sticks. It's important for the second chapter of Theo's project. Prof. Tyson one of those professors who speaks like he actually believes in art. Not just grades or technique, but the feeling of it.
The room is cold. The AC is too strong this morning. I pull my sleeves down and glance around. People are whispering behind me. Not loud enough for me to hear the words, but I know that look. That sideways glance, the slight lean in, the fake-casual tone. I've been on the receiving end enough times to know.
