On my twenty-sixth birthday, I was ready to die. Instead, I unexpectedly received a sketchbook. It was a posthumous belonging of the late genius artist, Julian Vance. Inside, the drawings were of me. When I was sixteen. 1. I held the sketchbook, staring at the signature "Julian Vance" in the corner, lost in thought. This famous genius painter was my high school classmate, same graduating year. But in my memory, we barely interacted. The last I heard of him was on the news, about that plane crash. This was his belongings, yet it was sent to me. Strange. I glanced at the flickering candles on my birthday cake. Originally, I planned to blow them out and end it all. Now... Whatever. A few minutes won't change anything. I opened the sketchbook. There were a lot of what looked like doodles. Minimalist strokes, but heavy with oppression. A shattered moon, a cracked crystal ball, twisted forests. I vaguely remembered reading a post about Julian, saying this genius artist suffered from mental health issues since he was a teenager, which was why he rarely appeared in public. In high school, he was indeed quiet and withdrawn. But because he had a beautiful face, he was still the topic of many conversations. I flipped through the pages absent-mindedly. One second I was wondering if this was sent to the wrong person, the next I stopped on a page. It was a sketch of a girl lying on a windowsill. Face scrunched up, looking like she carried the weight of the world. Despite the simple strokes, I recognized her instantly— That was high school me. Below it, a small line of text— "She died by the window for three days." I froze. 2. I had a severe cold once in high school. Because I was literally studying by a "cold window" in the dead of winter. I opened the window to let the freezing wind keep me awake. And memorized chemistry formulas in the icy draft. I had sworn to redeem myself from the shame of getting a 24 on my last chemistry test, so I crammed for three days before finals. The result was glorious—I caught a fever right before the exam. It was the most tragic exam of my life. While my classmates were scribbling furiously in the exam hall, I was hooked up to an IV drip in the hospital. The more I thought about it, the more unwilling I felt. So, while on the drip, I wrote an 800-word essay about my tragic experience and DM'd it to the official "Person of the Year" account on Instagram. I typed until I saw stars, only for my mom to snatch my phone away. She read my essay, deeply moved, and then told me that account was a fake bot. I was stunned, then wailed until I passed out. Later, my dad heard about it. Touched by my dedication, he took my essay to the principal and begged for a makeup exam. When I heard the news, I cried again. Because I had forgotten everything I memorized. 3. What a vivid sixteen. I chuckled involuntarily, but my smile vanished when I glanced at the family portrait on the desk. My gaze returned to the drawing, confusion rising again. Why would Julian draw me? I looked at the angle in the sketch and remembered the Art Building was directly opposite my classroom. So, I just happened to be in his line of sight? I flipped to the next page. This time, Julian's style changed. He drew a four-panel comic with a black gel pen. The strokes were extremely casual. In each panel, a tiny figure was sneaking food into her mouth in various secretive postures. Hiding behind a textbook, bending down pretending to pick something up, covering a yawn while popping a candy. This time, there was only one word below— "Tsk." Hm? What does that mean? Disdain? Come on, who doesn't need a little sustenance during class? We were high school students, surviving on caffeine and hope from 6 AM to 11 PM! 4. Intrigued, I flipped further. Several consecutive pages followed this comic format. Me dozing off in class, staring out the window in a daze, sneaking a novel under the desk, scratching my head over a test paper. The chibi figures had a weirdly comical vibe, like reading a manga. As I looked, I suddenly realized something. Wait, don't art students have classes? How did he have time to observe others? And this observation seemed to have become his hobby. I kept flipping. Below a series of drawings of me laughing in various ways, a line of small text appeared— "How can she be so happy?" I paused. Looking at those words, even though the writer wasn't there, I could almost hear his tone. Not mockery, not sarcasm, just pure confusion. I wasn't completely oblivious to Julian back then. Not long after freshman year started, rumors spread about a beautiful boy in the art class. Yes, beautiful. Being the nosy person I was, when it was our class's turn for hallway duty, I swapped shifts specifically to check the art class. Just to openly see how beautiful he really was. There were many artistic guys and girls, but Julian still stood out. I saw him instantly. That silhouette by the window. When he turned to look, the light from the window grazed his eyes, turning them amber. Summer hadn't faded, yet he was as cold as a handful of winter snow. Smelling of butterflies. I was dazed for a second. Because I witnessed the embodiment of male beauty. The impact of that face on my teenage self lasted a long time. To this day, I still remember asking my mom at the dinner table if she could sponsor my plastic surgery trip to Korea after she won at Mahjong. She didn't even look up. She just told me to get lost. 5. So Julian, someone so beautiful, wasn't easily happy either? Remembering the rumors about his mental illness, I pulled out my phone and searched his name. The first result was the news of his death in the plane crash. My fingers trembled, and I scrolled past it. I found his bio. His father was a local tycoon, his mother a professor at a prestigious art college. With such a background, his life should have been comfortable. At the bottom was a link titled: "Genius Painter's Mental Illness: The Hidden Truth..." I clicked it. A wall of text explained that his businessman father was rarely home, and his professor mother controlled him strictly from a young age—high-pressure training, harsh criticism, etc. The comments section had alleged insiders claiming Julian was locked in a dark room if his drawings weren't good enough, causing childhood trauma. Online info is hard to verify, but combined with those strange drawings, maybe Julian really had depressive episodes. I went back to the sketchbook. This time, the drawing showed me standing gloomily in front of a microphone, holding a piece of paper, with a glistening-spectacled old man standing behind me with his hands behind his back. I squinted. If I'm not mistaken, that's my high school principal, Mr. Xie. Dead memories suddenly attacked me. That was the most humiliating detention self-reflection of my student life. Bar none. 6. In high school, we had three afternoon periods, the last being study hall. My stomach was weak back then. I had the runs twice a day. My grandma often scolded my parents, saying it was because they didn't cook for me when I was little. My parents claimed the culprit was spicy strips. I didn't dare speak amidst the chaos. Because only I knew the real killers were the 50-cent street snacks and junk food. Anyway, study hall was usually used by me to solve my physiological needs. To offset the guilt of skipping study hall, I decided to absorb some literary culture even on the toilet. So I always brought a classic novel. That day, it was The Catcher in the Rye. I read a particularly sad part and, thinking of my own late grandmother, started bawling in the stall. I heard water running outside, but didn't pay attention. Soon after, hurried footsteps approached, followed by the booming voice of the Dean of Students, aka "The Exterminator"— "Student, what's wrong in there? Are you okay?" I was so scared my hand shook, and the book dropped to the floor.
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