I couldn’t sleep that night.

Hearing the quiet sobs of Hoya before my painting, my mind was in shock.

After he left I crept back into the room to put my name on my painting however, I couldn’t. I was curious, I wanted to know ‘why?’ why did Hoya cry so profusely upon seeing my painting and a little part of me knew, that if he found out I, who was in the same class as him, had painted it, the mystery would forever remain so. So I departed without claiming the painting as my own.

So I tossed and turned that night. Remembering his quivering voice, laden with guilt, and the tall broad shoulders that I had admired from afar for so long, become so small and tender. In my eyes he was the epitome of what I wanted to be, but seeing him so weak and hurt, something I could not fathom, made me question my ideals. A slow realisation dawned upon me that behind closed curtains, we may never understand what goes on in the backstage of a person’s facade. But it didn’t mean I wouldn’t try.

Don’t get me wrong; I am not some kind-hearted person who would go out of their way to help someone when I see them in need. Id rather not put myself where I am not concerned. But in this scenario, my lighthouse, my starlight, no, my idol was in pain and I might be the only person who knew. If this light were to go out, school would once more become a dank cave echoing knowledge at me from the dark.

Thus by sunrise, I decided I would fi