I swallow. “I want to pursue art.”
“Art?” He echoes.
Oh god, he thinks it’s dumb.
“What kind of art?” he asks.
“When I was younger, I used to do traditional. Like, with pencils and paint and stuff. But a few years ago, I got a drawing tablet, so now I mostly do digital art.”
“So that’s like drawing on a computer?”
“Yeah. Well, on computer software. The tablet I have has a screen, so I draw on that.”
“How long have you drawn for?”
“As long as I can remember. I started seriously drawing when I was in primary school. Well, as serious as kids can get, following YouTube tutorials and that kind of thing.”
“And how often do you draw?”
“Usually an hour.”
“A day?”
“Yeah,” I say, feeling sheepish. My parents used to tell me I should focus more on school and less on art. “I mean, I find it relaxing.”
He’s quiet for a moment, and I fidget. He thinks it’s lame.
“I’m so impressed,” he says eventually.
“You…you are?”
“How can I not be? That’s amazing. You’ve been doing it for so long, and you must have a lot of discipline to draw every single day.”
“It’s not really a matter of discipline,” I say. “I genuinely enjoy it.”
“So when you say you want to pursue art, what does that mean? Become a professional artist?”
“Yeah.” It all comes tumbling out. “I’ve been posting my art online for years, and I’m not super popular, but I do have a solid following. I used to do commissions for some extra money but stopped this year to focus on passing school. But I think that if I try my hardest, I could turn it into a full-time gig.”
“That’s amazing.”
I blush. “You’re just saying that.”
“No.” He reaches out and touches my hand. “I’m serious. That’s really incredible. Maybe part of the reason I’m so impressed is because I can’t draw a stick figure to save my life, but still. I’m sure you can do it.”
“Thanks. But…you haven’t even seen my art.”
“Show it to me.”
“What?”
“The next time you write me a letter, show me something you’ve done.”
I laugh nervously. “I…I don’t know. I haven’t shown anyone outside of my family. Not even my friends know.”
“Please?” he asks, fingers tangling with mine. “Of course, you don’t have to if you don’t want to. I won’t force you. But I’d love to see it.”
“Maybe,” I find myself saying.
