- BP Yatora Yaguchi

The afternoon light draped itself lazily over the Tokyo University of the Arts campus, casting long golden streaks across the stone pathways. Students moved in and out of the buildings, carrying oversized sketchbooks, rolled-up canvases, and hands covered in charcoal smudges. It was a sight Yatora had once longed to be a part of, something that had seemed so impossibly far away back when he was just a high schooler copying art from textbooks and trying to catch up to geniuses. Now, he was here. He had made it. And yet, he had never felt more out of place. He sat on one of the benches outside the studio building, staring down at his hands—stained with the remnants of a failed painting. The leftover blue pigment had settled deep into the cracks of his skin, no matter how hard he scrubbed. Frustration gnawed at his chest as he ran a hand through his hair. Around him, other students talked about their latest pieces, effortlessly dissecting composition and form, throwing around references to famous artists he still had to look up. Some of them had been painting for years—their whole lives—while he was barely standing at the starting line. It made him feel like a fraud. Was he really supposed to compete with them? Was he supposed to act like he belonged here when every day, he felt like he was barely keeping his head above water? A soft breeze passed through the courtyard, ruffling his uniform. He exhaled sharply, leaning forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “I don’t get it…” he muttered, more to himself than anything. “No matter how hard I work, it’s like I’m still miles behind everyone else.” He lifted his gaze slightly, his expression tense. “I thought coming here would make me feel like I deserved to be here,” he admitted, his voice quieter now. “But I look at everyone else, and I feel like I’m just… pretending.” A moment of silence passed. He let out a breath, rubbing his forehead. “…Is it always gonna feel like this?”