Dimas was a teenager who seemed perfect in the eyes of many. His grades were always outstanding, he was diligent in his studies, and deeply obedient to his teachers and parents. The teachers at school adored him, and praise for his academic performance and behavior came from all directions.
Every night, Dimas would review the material he had learned that day until late, even when his body felt tired and sick. Whenever he arrived home, his father would always ask to see his grades. If they were less than perfect, his father would urge him to study even harder.
The pressure and monotony gradually wore down Dimas's mental state. Each night turned into a nightmare. He began to hear whispering voices in his head.
"You're not good enough. You're just a burden. Why don't you just end it?"
The voice haunted him. In the darkness, he saw a shadowy figure standing in the corner of his room. It didn't move—it only stared and smiled.
One afternoon, Dimas sat blankly in the library, staring at the thick books scattered on the table. His mind was empty, directionless. He just wanted to rest. He accidentally knocked over a glass bottle beside him. The sound of shattering glass seemed to shake the silence of the room. He immediately began picking up the shards, but deep down, he felt strangely drawn to a sharp piece of glass. The whispers in his mind returned.
"Take it... it's your only way out..."
With trembling hands, Dimas picked up the glass and pressed it to his wrist. Blood gushed out rapidly as his body weakened.
Suddenly, the library lights flickered, and a soft voice called out,
"Dimas..."
Barely conscious, Dimas could only make out a blurry figure—a man with calm, gentle eyes standing before him. The man approached and blew on his wrist. Miraculously, the bleeding stopped, and the wound disappeared.
Dimas opened his eyes, checking his body. The cut was still there, but there was no more blood. Beside him sat the man, calmly reading a book. The man shifted closer.
"What were you trying to do?" he asked.
"Who are you?" Dimas replied hoarsely.
"I'm Serafim," the man answered simply.
"Did you see what I just did?" Dimas asked, confused.
"What did you do?" Serafim replied with a question of his own.
"I just tried to cut my wrist. Look—there's a scar. But... I'm fine?" Dimas said in disbelief.
"Why would you want to cut your wrist?" Serafim asked gently.
Dimas fell silent, his eyes brimming with tears. "I'm tired… Maybe I can't be a doctor… I don't want to be one… But I have to. My father..."
Serafim moved closer and gently patted Dimas's shoulder without saying a word.
Behind his smile and shining achievements, Dimas carried a weight he never spoke of. He looked at Serafim with deep sadness and began to share his story.
Ever since I was little, my father always encouraged me to study hard. I started to enjoy learning and had more motivation than most of my friends. My grades were always perfect. I consistently ranked first in class. This went on until I reached middle school. There, I became close with the art teacher. He taught me a lot about drawing. Proudly, I told my father that I wanted to become an artist and a painter. His reaction shocked me—he immediately scolded and yelled at me. Then he said that I must become a doctor.
From that day on, my father checked every test score and kept reminding me to become a doctor. When I entered high school, I convinced myself that being a doctor was my life path. I believed what my father said was right, and I tried to work even harder.
But in eleventh grade, some of my grades slipped because I wasn't feeling well. My father was furious and hit me repeatedly. He told me to study even harder. I began to weaken. I told my mother about this. She asked me to follow my father's wishes. She explained that my father once dreamed of becoming a doctor, but couldn't pursue it because of financial hardship. So he believes I must fulfill that dream and become more successful than he ever was.
I also told my mother that I had a different dream. I fell in love with art ever since middle school. But she asked me to forget it. To bury it deep and obey my father.
Serafim listened to everything without judgment.
"I know it's hard to accept," he said. "But believe me—someday your father will understand."
"When?" Dimas asked shortly.
"When you prove that he was wrong. That you deserve to choose what you love. And that you can be successful, even if you don't become a doctor," Serafim said with conviction.
"So what should I do now?"
"You must still study and get good grades," Serafim smiled.
From that day on, Serafim accompanied Dimas daily, guiding him to find joy in what he loved. They spoke about art, and the dreams Dimas had once buried.
"Come with me," Serafim said one afternoon.
"Where are we going?" Dimas asked curiously.
"Just follow me…"
They arrived at a house not far from Dimas's school, where Serafim introduced him to Mr. Surya, a professional painter who had sold thousands of artworks at high prices. He owned a personal gallery in the city and, due to his age, had begun teaching talented young people.
"I want to introduce you to someone," Serafim said.
Dimas hesitated. "Isn't this a waste of time? If my father finds out, he'll be furious."
"You just have to trust me," Serafim replied with a confident smile.
Shyly, Dimas handed his sketchbook to Mr. Surya.
"These drawings are excellent, Dimas. You have a natural talent. How about learning here with me?" Mr. Surya offered after reviewing the sketches.
"Yes, sir. I'd be honored to learn from you," Dimas replied proudly.
He was thrilled at the opportunity.
"Yes! I get to learn from a real artist, Serafim!" he said, jumping up and down.
"That's your talent. But remember—keep your grades up too," Serafim reminded him.
"Of course, Serafim!"
Dimas began studying art secretly in between his regular studies. His days slowly became brighter, though he knew he had to hide everything from his father.
But one day, his father, Mr. Danu, discovered the hidden canvases in Dimas's closet. His secret was exposed. Overcome with rage, Mr. Danu burned all of Dimas's artwork in the yard.
"I sacrificed everything for your education, and this is what you do? Do you think life is easy?" he shouted.
Dimas stood up to him. "This is my life, Dad! I don't want to be a doctor—I want to paint!"
But Mr. Danu saw Dimas's dream as an insult to all his sacrifices.
That night, Mr. Danu sat alone in the living room, staring blankly out the window. A dark figure appeared behind him, whispering in his ear:
"He'll only waste everything. You know what must be done."
As if in a trance, Mr. Danu went into Dimas's room and replaced his vitamins with high-dose tranquilizers. He wasn't fully aware of what he was doing.
The next morning, when Dimas didn't come out of his room, his mother grew worried. Upon checking, she found him unconscious on the floor. He was rushed to the hospital in critical condition.
"Sir, ma'am," the doctor said, "your son has overdosed on a very high dose of sedatives. Do you know who might have given him the pills?"
"We never gave him anything like that," Maya cried.
"I only gave him vitamins," Mr. Danu said in confusion.
But Maya, distraught, checked the home's CCTV footage—and was shocked to see her husband switching the pills.
"What did you do to our son?" Maya sobbed.
Mr. Danu trembled. He had no memory of doing it, but the footage didn't lie.
"I know you don't like Dimas painting, but how could you do this? He's our son!" Maya cried.
"I just wanted him to succeed… I don't know why I did that."
When Serafim heard of what had happened, he rushed to the hospital and prayed beside the unconscious Dimas. A warm light filled the room. As if by a miracle, Dimas stirred. His condition stabilized, and the doctor gave the good news to his family.
Standing outside the room, Mr. Danu asked for forgiveness.
"I'm sorry, son. I was wrong to force my will on you. I won't stop you anymore. I just want you to be healthy and happy again."
Dimas, hearing his father's voice, smiled weakly and forgave him.
He finally recovered. And this time, he no longer had to hide his dream. With full support from his parents, he continued painting—while finishing school on his own terms.
***