Laudeith Academy of Arts feels unnervingly silent today. Maybe it's the nerves. Maybe it's the way the early morning sun filters through the high windows, casting shadows like brushstrokes on the tiled floor. I walk the long hallway toward the studio, carrying the canvas close to my chest as if it were something fragile, alive.
Midterms.
For Fine Arts majors, midterms aren't written tests or closed-book essays. They're raw exposure. Paintings that peel away our guarded layers and put our hearts on display. This semester, it's oil painting. One work. One presentation. One moment to prove yourself.
And I'm terrified. Quite too much. I'm never good at presentations. Never.
Julia isn't here today. Her midterm critique is scheduled across campus, in the Performing Arts building. We wished each other luck this morning with sleepy hugs and matching yawns. I miss her presence already. She always knows how to calm my nerves—loudly and dramatically—but it works.
Now it's just me, myself, and my finished oil painting. I clutch the edge of the frame tighter. The canvas smells like linseed oil and varnish, grounding me a little. The studio door looms ahead, already slightly ajar. I can hear quiet conversation and the shuffle of footsteps inside. My stomach twists.
I step into the room after taking a deep breath. A dozen students sit in a semicircle, backs straight, eyes half-lidded with caffeine and anxiety. Professor Nadine leans back in her usual chair, arms crossed, her sharp gaze flicking from person to person. She's always like that. Her aura is so intimidating but she is actually a good professor who gives inputs and critiques that are needed.
After a few minutes of Professor Nadine's speech, she finally calls someone. Me. Holy.
"Liora Solene, I hope you created a masterpiece. Bring it on."
I try to keep on my toes and calm. I walk to the front and place the canvas on the easel. It's a storm. More specifically, it's a small ship in the middle of a raging sea, tossed by waves that claw at its wooden hull. The sky above is a churning gray, with hints of violet and deep navy. There's lightning splitting the clouds—barely visible behind the brushstrokes. I used a palette knife to layer the oil thickly across the ocean, giving it movement, weight. Hope they see it.
I stand beside my painting, hands folded in front of me.
Silence.
I clear my throat. "This is called 'Adrift'."
A very deadly silence. I glance down at my feet, then back up. Everyone is looking at the painting. Not me. That's better. So much better.
"It's about … holding on even when there's nothing left to grip. I wanted to capture that moment—just before you give in, but still trying anyway. Still fighting. Feeling hopeless yet so hopeful that you start asking for miracles."
A few students nod slowly. This isn't as bad as I thought it would be. I even feel slightly more confident now.
"I used a knife instead of brushes for most of the piece. I wanted the texture to feel rough, jagged, especially the dark clouds, storms, and the waves."
Professor Nadine tilts her head, looking straight at my eyes. "And the ship?"
I hesitate because I didn't expect that question would be asked by her. Then I breathe in, slowly.
"The ship is me," I say softly. My voice cracks just a little but I cover it with cough. "I didn't mean for it to be at first. I thought I was just painting a feeling. But somewhere along the way, it became personal."
I stare at it. The layers of blue, the restless movement. Maybe a little story will help me get higher grade from Professor Nadine. Who knows.
"There was a time when everything in my life felt like this. A storm. I left the only places I ever knew, just to live alone freely. I never thought I hadn't ready to be sailing alone in the ocean. No matter how wild the storm is, I'm still here anyway."
The silence in the room shifts. It's no longer awkward—it's weighty. Listening. Did I overshare?
I hear the click of a pen being set down. Someone in the back clears their throat. "What about the light?" One classmate asks gently. "There's a little light breaking through the clouds near the top corner. Is it a lightning? Or a little sunshine peeking through dark clouds?"
I smile faintly. "That part was unintentional. But I left it. Maybe it's hope. Maybe it's just morning. Either way, I needed it to be there. You can interpret it all you want."
Professor Nadine gives a soft, approving hum. "Thank you. That was ... vulnerable and evocative. You're slowly learning how to express yourself. Remember the first presentation you made in my class? That was ass. But this, today, you improved. Good job, Solene."
My heart pounds with a strange cocktail of relief and adrenaline. She gestures toward the others. "Any feedback, folks?"
More hands than I expected go up. Two classmates gave me feedbacks that I responded confidently.
The textures are incredible. You can almost hear the water.
The ship placement is smart—centered, but not safe.
I also explain my process, my palette choices, how I mixed gray-blue tones with a hint of crimson in the sky to make it more emotional. I even crack a small joke that gets a laugh.
And just like that, I feel okay.
By the time I carry my painting back down the hallway, I realize my hands aren't shaking anymore. I take a seat outside the room, letting my pulse settle. The weight of the moment slowly lifts off my shoulders.
I take out my phone and snap a quick photo of the painting, saving it as a reminder—for later, for darker days.
Maybe it's not the most brilliant piece of art in the world. Maybe it's not even the best in the room.
But it's mine. And it's honest.
And that's enough.
Later, I walk across the courtyard, canvas under my arm, the sun just starting to warm the spring air. Cherry blossoms flutter from the trees nearby, and I let one catch in my palm. The lightness of it feels like a strange gift.
I think about everything I've endured—everything I've hidden—and I breathe.
Still afloat.
Still here.
Adrift.