THE PORTRAIT OF ME

I always woke up before the alarm. I didn’t need the chime. The light from my small window always crept in around 5:30, washing the walls with a soft gray before the world made noise. At twenty-two, I’d become used to getting up early—not because I loved mornings, but because I was afraid of being late. And being late meant being wrong. Being wrong meant being a disappointment. That feeling haunted me more than any nightmare.

My apartment was nothing special—just two rooms and a bathroom, with a leaky faucet and walls thin enough to hear my neighbor’s late-night guitar. But it was mine. I paid the rent. I cleaned the windows. I called it home.

I studied Fine Arts at the local university. Sometimes I wondered whether I had chosen it freely or if it was just the only thing I was good at. My father, a carpenter, never quite understood what I did. “You draw faces, right?” he would say. “Maybe draw mine one day.”

But I never did. I was afraid I wouldn’t do it justice.

That morning, like many others, I packed my bag—sketchpad, pencils, a tin box of old acrylics, and my favorite brush, the one with the bent tip and the wooden handle stained with paint and years of holding. Then I stepped into the day, quiet as always.

The studio was on the third floor, and the smell hit me before I even reached the door: paint, wood shavings, turpentine, and something electric, like nerves. We had a portrait assignment that day—our professor, Rinaldi, said it had to be from life. “Choose someone here,” she told us. “Don’t just draw a face. Draw their soul.”

Easier said than done.

I looked around. Some students had already paired off. One boy had headphones in and didn’t seem to notice the world. Two girls were arguing about lighting. In the far corner, someone was scrolling through their phone, clearly hoping no one picked them.

And then I saw her.

She was sitting by the window, tying her long hair into a bun. Her features were soft, her eyes alert but cautious. Something in her posture told me she didn’t want attention—but needed it anyway.

I walked over.

“Can I draw you?”

She looked surprised. “Me?”

I nodded.

She smiled slightly. “Okay.”

Her name was Laila. New to the class, new to the city. She came from a coastal town where, she said, people still greeted each other with fruit baskets and gossip. She didn’t say much more.

I set up my easel, and she sat still, hands folded. I began to draw.

And I forgot everything else.

3. Between Lines

After that first session, something unspoken passed between us. We didn’t call it friendship, not yet. But we walked together after class. We talked—about simple things, like favorite books, bad coffee, the way the air smelled different when it was about to rain.

She told me her parents wanted her to study law, but she chose literature instead. “They’ll forgive me eventually,” she said with a shrug.

In return, she asked why I always drew strangers. Why none of my portraits ever smiled.

I didn’t know how to answer. I just said, “Maybe because I’m afraid to get it wrong.”

Sometimes we sat side by side in silence—her writing in her notebook, me sketching in mine. I liked those moments best. Silence with her didn’t feel empty. It felt full.

One night, as we walked home beneath a light drizzle, she stopped suddenly.

“Do you ever feel like you’re living someone else’s story?”

I looked at her, startled. “Yes,” I whispered. “All the time.”

The portrait I’d drawn of her was displayed during critique day. Rinaldi called it “powerful” and “honest.” But Laila didn’t say anything. She stared at it, then at me, then looked away.

Later, she said, “It’s too real. Like you saw something I wasn’t ready to show.”

“I’m sorry,” I said.

“I know you didn’t mean it,” she replied. But her voice was far off, like she was talking to a ghost.

We didn’t speak for a week after that.

During those days, I tried painting other things—fruit bowls, clouds, architecture. But everything felt flat. Empty. My hands couldn’t move right. My brush didn’t listen to me.

I sat in front of a blank canvas for hours, thinking about what she had said: living someone else’s story.

What if I didn’t know my own?

So I tried something I had always avoided: I drew myself.

Not just my reflection. Not just cheekbones and eyelashes. But me—tired eyes, messy hair, the constant tension in my jaw.

It was the hardest thing I’d ever drawn. I erased over and over. I hated the face looking back at me. But slowly, something else began to show—acceptance. Not peace, not yet. But something close.

The next day, I brought it to class and showed it to Rinaldi.

She stared for a long time.

“This,” she said softly, “is where you begin.”

And I knew what she meant.

I didn’t expect to see Laila at the student gallery. But there she was, standing in front of the portrait I’d drawn of her. The one that had broken us.

I watched her from a distance before gathering the courage to approach.

“You came,” I said.

“I had to,” she replied, eyes still on the canvas. “I hated it at first. But I think… I hated it because it told the truth.”

I nodded, unsure what to say.

“I’m sorry if I—”

“Don’t apologize,” she cut in. “The truth hurts. But it helped me.”

I swallowed hard.

She turned to me. “Did you ever finish your self-portrait?”

“I did.”

“Can I see it?”

I led her to the next room, where my piece hung—unfinished in parts, rough around the edges, but raw. Real.

She looked at it for a long time.

“You look strong,” she said finally.

“I’m trying to be,” I answered.

Years passed. I didn’t become famous. I didn’t end up in a big city studio or on magazine covers. But I kept painting.

I taught weekend art classes to kids. I painted hospital walls with cheerful colors. I volunteered at community centers.

I saw Laila now and then. Our paths no longer ran side by side, but they still crossed. We always smiled.

One afternoon, I received a letter from a teenage girl who had taken my art class.

She wrote: “Thank you for showing me that art doesn’t have to be perfect. Just honest. You helped me find myself.”

I folded the letter and placed it in my sketchbook.

I thought of my father again—his rough hands, his tired face, the way he used to say, “Draw me someday.”

And so I did.

I took out a new sheet and began to sketch—not just his face, but his kindness. The curve of his back from years of labor. The lines around his eyes from smiling at me in quiet, proud ways.

It wasn’t perfect.

But it was real.

And for the first time, I wasn’t afraid.