Stepping into his small poorly lit gallery, the light above swung vicariously close to his lowered head. Taking a seat in the studio area Kim Jinwoo stared blankly at the large white canvas in front of him. He had come to Seoul  with big dreams, and high hopes even against his fathers wishes. He knew that being an artist today was not a reliable career but he wasn’t going to be a puppet in his life anymore. He was done with everyone else pulling his strings, his life on display like a picture perfect show in which he had no control over. So he packed his already measly possession’s and the money he had saved up and bought a one way ticket to mainland South Korea, never looking back at the small island he had once called home.  Clueless and determined he spent most of his money on a small one room studio apartment, and he let his heart out on canvas. The smell of acrylic paint an ever lingering presence on his slight form. 

 As the days went on business was very slow, and he almost never saw any potential buyers in his small gallery. So most days he stayed home staring at blank white canvases with a brush in his hand but nothing inside of himself. 

  When he came to the city he was overwhelmed by noise, on his small town on Imja island, noise had never been something he had to deal with. Art is solitude, and art is quiet. It was easy for him to paint away the chaos in those first few months, to put his ever growing feelings on canvas. But as the months turned into his first year he discovered there were no feelings left inside of him to paint about. He had always been shy, and introverted even though on the outside he exuded life and bright energy. He had been approachable, but as the black under his eyes grew, and the light within them dissipated, no one would even look him in the eye.  

  He walked down the crowded Seoul streets the hazy spring weather perfectly matching the emptiness that he felt inside of himself. His tendency for getting lost becoming more energy draining than something to laugh at. The next wrong turn just added to the ever widening hole inside of his chest where his warm heart used to be. The black sky opened up and the pouring rain began to beat against his faded gray t-shirt. Maybe if I lay here it will wash me away. Jinwoo thought to himself. He felt like he was drowning but he no longer cared whether he lived or died. It wasn’t as though he would be missed. Just another person out of the billions on this earth. Worthless. He continued walking, at least before he got lost with a purpose. Now he wandered aimlessly, not wanting to go home, and not wanting to sit in that small desolate studio with its flickering lights and empty walls. 

  He ducked into the gallery anyways, not having the drive to hail a taxi to make the slight 12 blocks to his apartment. Half-heartedly he put his most recent painting on display in the easel that was visible from the smudged window. It was a watercolor, the first he had ever created in all his years as an artist. Acrylic was his medium, it was the only thing that could express his colorful mind on canvas. Until his world became black and barren, the thick potent colors were like tiny needles stabbing into his chest as he remembered how alive he used to feel. 

 But he found a twisted sort of comfort in watching the black watercolor drip from his brush onto the canvas. It pooled messily around the center as he spread it with shaking hands. They did that a lot more lately every time he held a brush he no longer felt certain, but that he was moments from finally breaking forever. Hours went by and he found himself with black hands and a completed painting in front of him. It was the first canvas he had completed in days. The entirety was almost nearly all black but in the center was the outline of a mans face. Mouth open as if left to scream eternally for a rescue that would never come. The sadness in the mans eyes illuminated by the many shades of black, it was a masterpiece of emotion. 

  The unfamiliar jingle of the bell knocked Jinwoo from his days, and he rose from the floor. Not remembering how he had gotten there in the first place. He looked towards the entrance to see a young man with large round glasses, and hair that had been plastered to his head by the downpour. Immediately he looked down at his own sodden clothes, and disheveled appearance and immediately became insecure in this mans presence. 

  “Oh, Hello!” The man said his bright smile offsetting the black clothing that covered him from head to toe. When the man gave him a slight bow he nearly stumbled backwards. He couldn’t even remember the last time someone had bowed to him let alone looked him in the eye. 

  “H-hi sir.” He replied in a voice that he didn’t recognize. He felt his cheeks turn hot as he realized he hadn’t used the proper Seoul dialect he had been practicing for so long. He hadn’t spoken to anyone outside of the few restaurants he ordered take-out from. His customers usually made their purchase with very little communication. As if the emptiness inside of Jinwoo’s eyes were contagious. 

“I was looking for a place to get out of the rain when I noticed your painting in the window. I guess I just felt like I needed to hear its story.” The man looked down at the floor, staring at his shoes. I guess he can’t look me in the eye either. Jinwoo thought to himself, almost wanting to laugh at the idea that anyone could have acted normal with him for more than a few short seconds. 

  “You really like it? I never do watercolors, it was a one time thing really. I set it there thinking no one would ever see it.” As Jinwoo spoke the man lifted his head and looked directly into his eyes. This man is an artist, and he is art himself. The man thought to himself while gazing intently at Jinwoo’s dark empty eyes. Getting as much emotion from them as he saw in the painting. On the outside he was slightly disheveled with eyes that lacked any source of light, but on the inside he was screaming out for someone, anyone to hear him. He wanted to know what distinguished the light in his eyes. 

  “Y-yes I love it actually. I am Song Minho, and what is the artists name?” Minho stammered in reply not fully snapping out of his daydream. He reached out his hand and Jinwoo shook it tentatively as if discerning whether or not any of this could be possible. 

  “I am Kim Jinwoo, its nice to meet you. Sit down if you’d like, I’ll go make us some tea you look freezing.” Jinwoo said in what sounded like more of a whisper than a confident reply. Minho bowed again and sat down in the small lounge area staring out at the dreary spring weather as the rain repeatedly hit the pavement. He found himself wanting to ask Jinwoo questions about more than just the painting. He didn’t like being drawn to him. He didn’t like the way something pulled inside of him when he looked into those dark brown eyes. This was a part of himself he had locked away from as long as he can remember. He was the heir to his fathers company, the only son. Expected to carry on the family name from a young age. Although he never struggled financially his whole life was an emotional battle. A constant war waging inside of his head at all times. You came in here for the painting, not for him. Minho tried to convince himself. Anxiously tugging at his damp sleeves. 

  “I hope you like green tea. It was the only thing I had.” Jinwoo said entering the room with 2 steaming mugs in his hands. 

 “Yes thats perfect actually. Now what is the story behind the painting?” The painting is not the only story I want to know. I want to know everything about you to. 

  “I guess that depends on which version you want to hear. The truth or the lie that will make it seem more beautiful.” Jinwoo immediately regretted the words that came out of his mouth, because he knew that he was going to have to tell this man he just only met the reason behind the eternal screaming depicted in the painting. 

  “I would like to hear the truth, sometimes its the ugly things that the eyes are the most drawn to. Sometimes one gets sick of to much beauty in the world. Imagine a perfect world where everything was symmetrical, and everyone was perfect. I don’t know about you but I wouldn’t want to live in a perfect world, where everything was straight forward and nothing hurt. Because without pain you wouldn’t have ever made this. Art would have no feeling behind it.” Jinwoo’s eyes rose up to meet the man’s in front of him, and immediately he wanted to tell him everything. He wanted him to understand the emptiness that was inside of himself. The lights flickered as he cupped the steaming beverage tightly between his small palms. 

  “I traveled here from Imja island, with a small amount of money and large ambitions. I was going to be an Artist, the best acrylic painter anyone had ever seen in a long time. I put everything I had into this studio, and as the days turned into weeks, and the weeks turned into months. The dark circles under my eyes grew into something that turned every willing customer away. I couldn’t sleep and I couldn’t create anything, all my canvases lie blank as I stared at them with an empty expression. Art is expressed with what you feel inside. So it was only normal that I had blank canvases because I am a horribly empty individual. But one night I stumbled home in the rain, I get lost everyday. I managed to find my building, and I felt something churning within me. It was loneliness, a need to be understood. I wanted something that would drip onto the canvas something that would be hard to control. So I dug up my watercolor set, it was in a small metal box that I had gotten as a kit for my 15th birthday. I had never even opened it because my medium was Acrylic and I had always known that. I needed something messy, and something that would mix together like a stormy puddle. Before I could think I had a canvas of nothing but  various layers of black. I carved the face with my fingernails, wanting the black to stain my hands, because I was a broken artist who no longer lived in color.” He looked down at his still black stained fingertips, and then back up into Minho’s broken eyes. They where full to the brim without spilling over, his face nearly expressionless except for the creased lines of his forehead. He reached and wiped under his glasses, and began to pull out his wallet. 

  “How much do you want for it?” Minho’s voice quivered and he did understand. He knew all to well the feeling of emptiness, he had just become accustomed to it. Although unlike Jinwoo he was not a struggling artist, he was a very wealthy man with nothing left in his chest. He lived his whole life pretending, being someone he didn’t love. Every time he looked into the mirror he saw a stranger, and he hated himself for it. 

  “Uhh I hadn’t even thought about it. Whatever you think it’s worth I will sell it to you for. I haven’t had a customer in days.” Jinwoo stopped thinking his paintings were worth much of anything. 

 “Will you take $20,000 US dollars for it? I just got back from a business trip there and this is all I have in my wallet. I would pay more of course b….”

  “Wait you are willing to pay me over 12,000,000 won for this painting? The most I have ever sold one for is $1,000 US dollars. Is it really worth that much?” 

  “$1000? Jinwoo you have a skill level that should be shown in professional galleries. Those pieces can go for millions. This isn’t negotiable I am giving you the money. I’ll definitely be back you can count on that. I would love to see what you can do with a paint that is actually your medium.” With this Minho leaves his money on the counter and walks out the door. With his carefully wrapped canvas in hand. He didn’t want to give Jinwoo the chance to reject his offer. The rain was only pattering lightly now as Minho made his way to the street to hail a cab. I’ll stop quickly at home before I have to go meet.. her. He thought to himself as he told the driver his address clutching onto the painting as if it was his life force.