Dear Teacher, Sometimes, I vomit up dark things at dawn. I don’t remember exactly when it started. It’s all too vague now—whether it began when I was born, or after I met you. But the reason I picked up a pen to write this letter—despite not being good at writing—is clear: I want to confess. The words I’ve kept inside for t...
Dear Teacher, Sometimes, I vomit up dark things at dawn. I don’t remember exactly when it started. It’s all too vague now—whether it began when I was born, or after I met you. But the reason I picked up a pen to write this letter—despite not being good at writing—is clear: I want to confess. The words I’ve kept inside for ten years. Even if they mean nothing to you, Teacher. You once said, “Why don’t you draw me?” You approached me with a dry brush and asked that question. I was so flustered that I couldn’t say anything. I just stood there, lips parted like a fool. And yet, it should have been so natural. I’m a professional painter—how strange that I never put you, the one closest to me, on canvas. In the end, I said nothing. And you never asked me that question again. What were you thinki
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