The Silent Canvas (Catnipz)

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Minji sat at the dinner table, her chopsticks barely touching the rice in front of her. The familiar weight of tension settled in the room like a thick fog, and she could feel the familiar pressure building in her chest. Her father's voice cut through the silence, harsh and cold.

"You're still not doing enough, Minji," her father's words were like a reprimand, sharp and unyielding. "Look at your cousin. He skipped a grade at his school. You should be doing better. You've had all the advantages; good schools, tutors, everything, and yet you're still not keeping up."

Minji didn't respond immediately. Her gaze remained fixed on her plate, her fingers tightening around the chopsticks as if she could control her growing frustration by sheer force. Her father's words were nothing new, nothing she hadn't heard a hundred times before. But they still cut deep, deeper than she cared to admit.

"I didn't ask for all of this," she muttered under her breath, but her father didn't hear her, or perhaps he chose not to.

"What was that?" His tone was sharper now, and Minji flinched, looking up to meet his eyes.

"I just said... I'm trying my best," she said quietly, but even as the words left her lips, she knew it wasn't enough. It never was.

Her father scoffed. "Your best? This is your best? Your best isn't good enough. Look at your cousin, he's already ahead, while you're wasting time. You should be more like him, more like someone who has ambition." He jabbed his finger toward her, the harshness in his voice leaving no room for argument.

Minji's chest tightened, her breath catching as her father's words rang in her ears. More like him? She didn't want to be like her cousin. She didn't want to be the person her father seemed to think she should be; perfect, flawless, a reflection of his own unyielding standards.

But it didn't matter. It never mattered. No matter how hard she tried, no matter how much she gave, it would never be enough. To her father, she was always just a little behind. Always just a little less.

She pushed her chair back with a soft scrape of wood against the floor, standing abruptly. Her father's sharp gaze followed her movements, his expression unreadable.

"I'm going to my room," she said quietly, trying to sound calm, trying to mask the storm of emotions swirling inside her.

Her father didn't respond. He didn't need to. The silence between them said everything. It was the same silence that had existed for years, the one that stretched out between them, thick with expectations, failure, and disappointment.

Minji left the dinner table without another word, her footsteps heavy as she climbed the stairs to her room. She closed the door behind her with a soft click and leaned against it, the weight of her father's words still pressing down on her.

She slid to the floor, her back against the door, her head resting in her hands. Her mind raced with thoughts of her cousin, of the constant comparisons, of how she could never measure up to the standards that had been set for her. She could hear her father's voice echoing in her head, like a never-ending loop.

"You should be more like him. You're not trying hard enough."

The words seemed to follow her everywhere.

But, deep down, Minji knew there was nothing she could do to change how her father saw her. She could push herself until she broke, try harder until she couldn't go on anymore, but it would never be enough. She wasn't her cousin. She wasn't anyone other than herself, and maybe that was the problem.

Her thoughts drifted back to Haerin, to the brief encounter they'd shared in the hallway. In that moment, Haerin hadn't asked her to be perfect. She hadn't demanded anything. There was something freeing in that silence, something Minji hadn't realized she craved until now. For the first time in a long while, Minji didn't feel the weight of expectation pressing on her shoulders.

But that was only a fleeting moment, wasn't it?

Her father's voice still echoed in her head, demanding more, always more. And Minji, tired and lost in the heavy fog of her own thoughts, wasn't sure how much more she had left to give.

But as she stared at the floor, her fingers curling into fists, a small thought persisted, a quiet whisper in her mind;What if there was more to life than just being perfect?

Kang Haerin

Haerin sat at the small wooden desk in her room, the light from her desk lamp casting a soft glow over the cluttered space. Her room had slowly transformed into a makeshift studio over the past few months, the walls adorned with unfinished canvases and sketches, the floor littered with paint tubes and brushes. It was the one place in her world where silence felt like peace, where her thoughts could wander freely without being interrupted by the outside world.

Her hands moved with practiced ease, dipping the paintbrush into the deep blue paint and sweeping it across the canvas in broad strokes. The colors mixed and blended beneath her touch, the sea of paint growing more vibrant with every stroke. She didn't think much as she painted, didn't dwell on the details. It was almost like her thoughts bled into the canvas, taking shape in ways words never could.

Her fingers brushed against the edges of the canvas, smudging a few stray lines, and she paused for a moment to inspect her work. It was beautiful, but there was always something missing. She never knew what that something was, but it was a feeling she couldn't shake. It lingered in her chest, a quiet ache she couldn't name, a gap between what she wanted to express and what her art could capture.

Haerin paused, her brush hovering just above the canvas as her thoughts wandered back to Minji. The way Minji had signed to her, those simple gestures that seemed so natural, so effortless; there had been something in that moment that felt different. It wasn't just the surprise of someone acknowledging her silence. It was the warmth that Minji's hands had conveyed, an unspoken understanding that Haerin hadn't realized she was missing.

Nobody had ever talked to her in sign before, outside of her ASL teachers who taught her the language as a way to communicate with her parents, who had never truly learned. Haerin had grown used to people speaking over her, not trying to bridge the gap between them. She had grown used to silence, but the kind of silence that felt like being invisible, ignored.

But Minji had been different.

Her hands had moved fluidly, in the same language Haerin had learned to speak with her own hands, though in her world, those words were often left unsaid. Minji's eyes had met hers, full of something Haerin couldn't quite place. Maybe it was curiosity. Maybe it was empathy. But it was real.

The weight of her thoughts pressed in on Haerin, like a delicate thread pulling her in a direction she wasn't sure she was ready to go. She had never wanted to be the center of attention, never wanted to be noticed for something other than what she could do with a paintbrush, but there was something about Minji's gaze that made her feel seen for who she was, for all her silence, her art, her struggle.

Haerin exhaled a slow breath, her fingers trembling slightly as she dipped the brush back into the blue paint. She wanted to paint something new, something different this time. Something that felt like the way Minji had made her feel. But as the colors spread across the canvas, she realized it was harder than she thought. How could she capture that feeling, that warmth, on a piece of fabric?

Her hand moved in slow, hesitant strokes, as if trying to translate what she had felt into something tangible. She wasn't sure it would work, but she had to try. For once, she wanted to capture a moment of connection, a spark of something she hadn't felt in so long. And maybe, just maybe, if she painted it well enough, it would stay with her, something beautiful to hold onto.

As her brush danced across the canvas, Haerin couldn't help but wonder what it would be like to talk to Minji again, to see if there was more to this strange feeling that had blossomed inside her. But she wasn't sure she could bear the thought of opening herself up too much. She had always built walls around herself, walls that kept the world at a distance. They had always been necessary, hadn't they?

But Minji had managed to get through, even if just for a moment.

With a sigh, Haerin set the brush down, her eyes lingering on the unfinished painting before her. Maybe one day she would find the right words, the right colors, to express everything she had been feeling. Until then, she would keep painting, keep trying to put into art what she couldn't yet say.

And maybe, just maybe, Minji would be a part of it.