It was just a classroom—same cracked floor tiles, same flickering lights. But that day, it felt different. Brighter. Warmer. Like something had shifted.
It was the first time I'd agreed to speak publicly about my art.
The teacher introduced me as "a quiet soul with a loud heart," and I smiled—because that's exactly what you used to call me, Yuna. Quiet, but burning inside.
I stood in front of the class, holding one of my recent paintings: *The One with No Name.* The canvas still smelled faintly of linseed and memory.
I didn't shake.
I didn't cry.
Instead, I told them about emotion. About creating from a place that hurt but also healed. About how sometimes, art is the only way to say the things you can't form into words.
They listened.
Not just with their ears, but with their eyes—the kind of listening that goes deep. And I realized in that moment, I wasn't alone in my story. We all carry grief. We all carry love. Some people just have better tools to shape it.
Mine are colors and brushes.
Yours were laughter and letters.
After the talk, a girl came up to me—eyes full of tears, smile trembling.
She said, "Thank you for saying what I've never been able to."
And just like that, I understood what you meant when you said your life wasn't just your own.
It ripples.
It reaches.
It teaches.
I walked out of that room into the hallway, sunlight pouring in through the windows. My fingers were still stained with blue and gold. I didn't wipe them clean.
I wanted to remember.
Because that day, in a room full of strangers, I felt seen.
And through their eyes, I saw *you* again.
Alive.
Still shining through everything I do.
Not gone.
Just transformed.
A room full of light,
And you…
Everywhere.
—