"A better future of learning starts here," that's my school's motto, but I've never really believed it. They can't expect everyone here to end up in a good place when they're older. After all, who really wants to keep learning when they grow up?

Not me, I don't think I could ever convince myself to care about this school that I've spent all year hating. Every assignment, every grade, every time they treat me less than human, it's all so useless. The only thing I need is this pencil in my hand, if I cannot make my dreams come true, I can at least draw them.

My childhood dream has always been to meet someone who understands me, to have someone in my life that doesn't treat me like everyone else does, as if I'm someone who needs fixing.

As I'm sitting in class, a girl I barely recognize starts taunting me, "Look who it is! The art freak decided to show her face in class today!"

I keep my eyes on the drawing I'm working on, light hair, dark skin, and a majestic red dress.

The girl's friends in my class all start laughing with her.

I pretend the girl in my drawing is the perfect person, a girl whose personality would match perfectly with mine.

My classmate starts gossiping with her friends. I don't bother listening to them.

The girl in my drawing is outgoing, creative, and smart, everything I'm not. The perfect person, at least in my eyes.

I can't seem to connect to others as well as I connect to these drawings. I show confidence through thick lines instead of having to speak aloud. I spend time on the details in my art rather than focusing on school. My worth has never been defined by anything other than my art. The faces at school may call me manic but I couldn't care less. Sometimes the only thing I have is art, it's always been there whenever I needed it. It kept me out of the dark, it stopped me from going off the deep end. I don't know what I would do without art, without the ability to create her, perfection on paper.

I see Nora walk in while looking at her phone, probably watching her favorite band, the Lucies. I hate that band with a passion, but she plays it 24/7. Nora is the most annoying person here, and I like to pretend that she's this old drawing I made back when I was little. Something I used to be proud of, that I've only grown to resent.

 "Mori!!" she shouts with a big grin on her face. That's the worst part of an old drawing, you can never get rid of the memories or undo the time you spent making it.

I like to picture the classroom as a drawing too, with lines that stretch too far in every direction, building up the prison that hopes to better us. The squares on every wall are there to show us the layers of the outside world, to remind us of everything we're missing out on.

My seat in the classroom is more of a stool, the back being almost nonexistent. I hate it, it's like they want to torture my back, but torturing my brain should be enough.

I take out my homework, full of boring equations that could never compare to art. All these problems seem so meaningless. I scan the sheet for mistakes but before I know it I'm turning the numbers into little fish, creating a small fish kingdom.

The teacher walks over and gives me a face, "Mori, what did I say? No drawing on your homework, I cannot grade this."

I hear a girl snicker to her friend and whisper, "Oops! Looks like the art freak is back at it!"

The teacher can obviously hear her, but she pretends she doesn't and says, "Here's another sheet, turn it in by the end of the day and I'll give you full credit."

I look down at the paper and roll my eyes.

Like I would do that.

Alarms start going off around the building, and the teacher tells everyone to stand up.

The principal makes an announcement through the speakers, "Everyone, this is not a drill, I repeat, this is not a drill, follow your teachers out of the building."

The teacher tells us to leave all our stuff here, but I catch glimpses of people grabbing their phones. I make a last second decision to take my sketchbook with me, and follow the rest of the students out. I reach the field where everyone else is, and the teacher notices my sketchbook and scolds me for bringing it.

Her name is Ms. Mat, but she never wears matching clothes, so I've always called her Ms. Match. I like to pretend she's a child who doesn't know color theory. She wouldn't be too noticeable if it weren't for the spotted purple shirt and murder-red skirt she decided to wear today.

Purple and red do not go together.

Despite my focus on Ms. Match's questionable fashion choices, I'm still able to realize that one class is missing, along with their teacher, Mr. Snuz, or Mr. S as he prefers.

Suddenly, an older-looking student comes running out followed by a few others, including Mr. S trailing behind. Mr. S looks a little out of it, and I'm not too concerned about it until I see that he's carrying a girl with burn marks on her arm. Not long after I start hearing sirens coming towards us. They load the girl onto the ambulance.

Firefighters rush to the scene, and the school staff counts two missing students. The principal's voice echoes from the speakers, "Teachers, please dismiss all students, school will resume on Monday.'

I take this as code for 'do whatever you want," and walk down to the coffee shop near my school to get a cold cup of black coffee, just how I like it.

I sit down at the first empty table I see, and Nora appears next to me, giving me a big hug, "Hi Moriiiii." She is such an optimist, I don't think I've ever seen her without a smile.

So annoying...

I look around the table to see two of my old art pieces, Lily and Kyle. Nora starts bickering with Lily while Kyle reads a book. It's a "history" book I lent to him, about the ongoing war between humans and other creatures. Because of that the universe lost its name as the Cosmos, and now it's referred to as the Corpia. Corpia means copy, and that's what the other beings began to call us, copies, each person the same as the last.

Can one really be different in a society of copies?

Sometimes I wish I could erase the other creatures from existence. I would brush the end of my pencil over the world, and only humans would remain.

I imagine my perfect person tapping me on the shoulder and taking me away from an awkward conversation. I turn away, but not without seeing the disappointment on Nora's face.

I can't convince myself to care.

On my walk home, I start to sip my coffee, and I notice a familiar shadow around the corner of a building, the principal. "The fire happened unexpectedly, there was no way to stop it."
He's standing next to a girl with a clipboard and a pen, she seems to be scribbling down everything he says.

"So you had nothing to do with the match?" I see a glimpse of the reporter's face rom behind the wall. Her expression is blank.

I feel someone touch my shoulder, but when I turn around I see nothing.

It must have been my imagination.

I start walking away, but not before hearing the principal speak again, "Look, there's no proof of anything, but I promise I can pay well if you keep this quiet."

I imagine a drawing of a dark alleyway at night, where two people dressed in black whisper secrets to each other in the dead of night.

I get home and head straight to my bedroom, art covers the walls, and my easel takes up half the room. I have empty paint tubes scattered on the floor and heaps of blended colors forming an ugly brown on my desk. I drop my backpack beside my easel.

I would do my homework now, but instead, I grab a tin of purple paint and start creating a purple sunset.

I start with a simple layer of purple paint, but soon I start to add blue, yellow, and a little bit of pink. Whenever I paint I tend to grow frustrated, it takes a lot of skill to make something perfect, and I can never seem to get it right.

If my art isn't an 11/10, you can expect to find it in the nearest trash can whenever I decide to give up on it.

"Honey, it's time for dinner!"

I look at my watch and notice it's already 6:30. Time flies. I walk down the stairs and realize my hands are stained with paint.

"Were you painting again?!?" My mother rolls her eyes. "I hope you didn't get any paint anywhere."

I sit down with my plate at the dinner table. My father is at the head of the table, my little brother is across from me, and I'm sitting in my favorite seat, with the wall behind me serving as an illusion of privacy.

My mother sits next to my brother, placing his plate in front of him as our dog, Lillie, starts excitedly begging for food. I pass the tiny dog a bite of salmon from dinner, then eat the rest.

My father starts going on about the news, "Did you hear that a cat-like creature is going to be the next president? It's the president of people, not of cats."

What I take in from this: bla bla bla.

Or in other words: nonsense.

This is what it's like every night; back when I was younger I used to make them play games like 20 questions when we ate. But, I started to notice that they didn't enjoy it, which was a little disappointing. It was the only reason I looked forward to dinner. What I really don't get is why they would rather talk about politics, anything else would be better.

As I walk upstairs I pretend that the girl from my drawing is real again and pretend that she's telling me to skip school because another fire could form, though unlikely.

I jump into bed and curl up under the warm sheets, I pick up my notebook and start writing a short story based on the events of the day.

I like to think that writing stories helps me gain creativity for my art but I can't seem to expand my art knowledge in the way I want to. I can do decent poses, but I want outstanding colors, and I have a good sense of shading but my art always seems too flat and fake.

But more than anything I wish to be a perfect artist, and have the ability to draw anything I can think of.

Soon I fall into a deep sleep.

I wake up to my door being opened, I see my mother walking inside. "Honey, you have a C in math, you need to do better." She grabs a dog toy that's on the floor and closes the door.

She always seems so disappointed.

I notice a little tear sprinkling out of my eye, I hate when I cry, especially over something as stupid as my mother's disappointment, but I just can't help it.

I decide to act like that perfect person is back, Oviya—the name means creativity. I like to think that she came from some ancient kingdom and painted the most amazing portraits of the king and queen.

She comforts me and gives me a warm hug.

I wish she was real.

I hug her tight but remind myself that this looks stupid. Hugging onto the air. She puts a hand in my hair. I look up to see brown eyes staring down at me.

Not real. Not real. NOT REAL.

I start saying the words "not real" aloud. Repeating them again and again.

Soon the comforting illusion turns into a deep slumber, but the words "not real" are still running through my head, over and over again.

As I feel the cool breeze come in through my windows, my eyes fail to stay open, and Oviya weaves her way into the fabric of my dreams.

When I wake up the next morning, I feel empty again.