Take Off

· The Old Future ·

I was putting on my shoes when the front door opened from the outside.

"......"

The man stood gripping the doorknob, froze when he saw me, and dropped his gaze. His expression said the timing was bad.

Just half a year ago, he was also the man who smiled as if he owned the whole world every time our eyes met.

"Where have you been?"

I tightened the laces of my Converse, straightened up, and asked. My attitude toward him had grown just as dry as his toward me.

"Just... a walk."

In the cramped entryway — barely wide enough to flatten a single ramen box — we shuffled past each other and kept the conversation going in strained half-sentences. The night before, we'd spent nearly five hours in what passed for a debate but was really a fight, and when I woke up late, he had already gone out without eating.

"Going to your tutoring job?"

He asked in a perfunctory tone as he took off his sneakers and headed toward the kitchen.

Since that spring, I had been working with the son of my older sister's friend at their home. I'd taken the job to ease our financial struggles even a little, but as the lessons stretched on for nearly a year, I found myself genuinely enjoying and looking forward to that time — it was almost the only space left where I could breathe and allow myself to dream.

There was a joy in encouraging someone from up close and watching them grow — a potential brimming with hot energy that constantly shifted its form, possessing both talent and passion.

Since I was being paid to look at his work, calling it art tutoring wasn't wrong. But I never instructed the boy to correct parts that were too idiosyncratic and might harden into bad habits, nor did I teach him techniques — like where to place highlights or reflected light to render a sphere.

The boy was already painting using skills beyond what was expected for his age. There was no need to guide him on techniques he hadn't yet grasped. It was clear he would come to understand them on his own, in time.

"I'm heading out. Make sure you eat."

I left him behind — his jumper dropped on the floor, himself already crawling back under the covers. Outside, the air was chilly enough that I had to pull my coat collar up tighter, yet breathing felt just as suffocating as inhaling through a 40-degree heatwave.