I stand before the gates of the arts faculty. They are bright blue and slightly crooked. It kind of looks like someone put them up in a hurry, but then decided to keep them, because they do look somewhat charming. I adjust the strap of my bag, sketchbook tucked safely under my arm, and walk through them, trying to look like I do this every day – FYI, I do not.
The heat wraps around me, thick and sticky, and pressing against my skin like it's personally offended I'm wearing long sleeves (why on earth did I decide long sleeves were a good idea?!). There's noise everywhere: scooters honking, students shouting across the courtyard, and laughter. The signs are all in Thai with tiny English underneath, and my brain keeps tripping over the letters like they're speed bumps. I can speak Thai, but it's one thing to speak it in a controlled environment and another thing entirely to be thrown into the middle of the chaos called a campus.
I keep my head down and smile politely whenever someone glances my way. Just a small, harmless smile. Nothing to see here. Definitely not the Chinese kid who could have studied at any fancy academy in the world but chose this one because he's scared and needed to be somewhere no one knows the story. Yep, definitely not that.
Behind me, about fifteen respectful paces back, Big Rock and Slightly Smaller Rock are attempting to blend in – and I mean attempting in the best way possible. They are failing spectacularly. Two very large men in dark shirts trying to look casual next to flowering bushes is a special kind of comedy. Well, at least there is something to laugh about, and when you can laugh about something, the situation is already 17.5% less bad. Big Rock's arms are too big for his sleeves, and Slightly Smaller Rock is pretending to read something on his phone while clearly scanning every person who walks past me. A group of girls in paint-splattered overalls walks by and does a double-take. I pretend I don't notice or care.
Everyone here looks like they belong. Their clothes have paint on them like badges of honor. I see someone walk past with bright turquoise smudged across their cheek, and they don't even bother wiping it off. I then glance down at my own neat white shirt and feel like a dumpling that accidentally took the wrong bus.
But then the light hits the old brick building on my left, golden and warm, sliding across the windows like it's showing off. Students are sitting on the steps with sketchbooks open, arguing about color theory, laughing loudly and easily. And something in my chest does a tiny, careful flip.
I chose this.
No one made me come here. Not Jingwei, not Pim, not even the careful worried eyes back home. I bought the ticket. I packed the seaweed (OK, Grandma packed the seaweed and forced me to bring it along). But I walked through those gates myself.
I take a deep breath, tighten my grip on my sketchbook, and keep walking, even if my heart is beating a little too loud for such an ordinary Thursday morning.
****
The orientation room smells like sweat and instant coffee and is filled with the nervous energy of people pretending they're not nervous. I sit near the back (because I am nervous), with my sketchbook closed on my lap like a mini shield, trying to look politely invisible.
A girl sits two rows ahead, with electric pink streaks in her hair. She is already doodling on her orientation packet with aggressive enthusiasm. Every time she laughs, which is often, she throws her head back like the joke might escape if she doesn't commit fully. I like her. She looks like the kind of person who would set something on fire to get the perfect shot, then apologize to the smoke alarm. Mmm, now I sound a little crazy for liking someone like this. Oh well.
Sitting next to her is a tall boy with round glasses wearing the exhausted expression of someone who has already lived through Thanos' first finger-snap. He keeps adjusting three different sketchbooks (which I'm assuming are his) as if they might grow little feet and run away. When our eyes meet by accident, he gives me a tiny nod of solidarity: the international language of "we are both overthinking this."
On my left sits a girl in an oversized denim jacket covered in patches. She's drawing tiny fashion figures in the margin of her handout and muttering, "No, the sleeve is wrong," to herself. Her style is chaotic but confident. I can respect that.
And in the front row, there's a boy with a quiet energy who hasn't said a word but whose hands are covered in charcoal smudges up to his wrists. I just seriously hope he doesn't commit a crime before he washes his hands, because in their current state, even a two-year-old will know it was him.
I smile politely when people glance at me, give short, soft answers when they ask where I'm from ("Beijing"), and offer nothing else. I only show the version of me that has learned it's safer to let people fill in the blanks themselves. The less they know, the less there is to judge.
Then Khun Aom walks in.
She's mid-forties, warm but sharp-eyed, with her hair in a loose bun and paint on the cuff of her sleeve like she forgot to change after her own studio time. The room settles immediately. She doesn't raise her voice; she doesn't need to.
She gives the standard welcome, listing the facilities, expectations, etc., but her eyes keep drifting to me with gentle recognition. I feel it like a soft hand on my shoulder. Of course, she knows. The university had to be told for "support reasons." The words still taste sour even in my own head.
After the group session ends and everyone starts drifting out, she catches my eye.
"Lu Xiao Wei? Could I speak with you for a moment?"
I nod and follow her to the corner of the room. My heart is doing that annoying fluttery thing it does when someone might see too much.
She doesn't sit. She just leans against the table, arms loosely crossed, like this is a casual chat between two people.
"I wanted you to know that I've read your file," she says quietly. No sugar, no drama. "I'm here if you ever need to talk. About anything. The workload, the adjustment, or… other things. No pressure, just know my door is open."
I swallow. My throat feels tight.
"Thank you, Khun Aom," I say, voice politely and steadily just like I rehearsed it. "I appreciate that."
Inside my head, it's louder.
She knows. She knows about the car, the concrete floor, and the friend who wasn't a friend. She knows why I really came here – not just for the program, but to be somewhere everyone doesn't judge me before getting to know me. And right now, she is offering her help without me having to ask. Which feels safe, but at the same time, it also feels exposing, like someone just turned on the lights while I was still trying to hide under the blanket.
I give her my best calm smile. The one I've perfected over three years. "I'll keep that in mind."
She studies me for a second, then nods once, like she expected exactly that answer. "Good. Now go find your studio."
I bow slightly – an old habit – and slip out of the room.
My hands are shaking just a little as I walk down the corridor, so I quickly tuck them into my pockets and keep moving.
Someone here already knows the worst thing about me. But she didn't look at me like I would break into a million pieces at any moment, or like I was something that needed a dose of friendly sympathy.
That's new.
****
I get the small silver key from the admin office. It's weird how such small things can carry an unexpected weight. The woman behind the counter smiles and says, "Room 312. Good light in the afternoon. You'll like it."
I answer without thinking, "Thank you, I'm sure I will." My accent is still a little Beijing-soft around the edges, but the words come easily. I've been practicing for months.
The corridor to the studios is quiet. My shoes sound a bit too loud for the space. Big Rock and Slightly Smaller Rock stay by the entrance as they promised – far enough to give me space, but close enough that I still feel them. I appreciate the effort.
Room 312. My room.
I slide the key in, turn it, and push the door open.
The silence hits me first, not really empty per se, but more like a space just waiting to be filled. The room has slightly off-white walls and high windows for letting in that soft golden light. Against the wall, there is a scarred wooden table, two stools, and a deep metal sink in the corner.
I can't believe this space is mine.
I close the door behind me and lean against it, letting the peace settle around me. No one is watching. No one is waiting for me to be okay. It's just me and four walls that don't already know my past like some kind of Shakespearean tragedy.
I move slowly and start putting up my sketches.
First comes the auntie from the food stall – the one I sketched on my second evening. In the drawing, I can see her hands moving with calm efficiency while the grill smoke curls around her. I pin her up carefully, smoothing the corner.
Next is the croissant-destroying child from the airport: her round cheeks, serious frowns, and tiny fists covered in flakes, completely unbothered by the mess she was making of the world. I pin her beside the auntie.
Lastly, I take out the single sunflower. It's simple, bright yellow, and a little lonely in the middle of the white paper. I drew it on the plane right after leaving Beijing, when the memories felt too big. I left it slightly crooked on purpose. I finally pinned it next to the other two drawings.
I step back. It's not much yet, but it's the start of something.
The late afternoon light slides through the window and lands across the three drawings like it's saying hello. The auntie, the fearless child, and the lonely sunflower. Pieces of my first days here. I smile.
My hands start shaking.
I tell them to stop, but they don't listen right away. They just tremble there like they remember the concrete floor and the smell that wasn't coffee. Three years of people being so careful with me, it sometimes felt like I was made of glass. And now I'm standing in a room that doesn't know how to be careful. It doesn't know anything about me except that I can pin drawings on a wall.
It's terrifying, but it's also the first time in a long time something feels… possible.
I whisper to the empty room, voice cracking just a little, "Please be kind to me." I pretend that I have allergies; I am not crying. Nope, not all.
The words sound stupid the second they leave my mouth, small and a little hopeful. I press the heels of my hands against my eyes for a second, breathing through the ache blooming in my chest.
Then I slide down the wall until I'm sitting on the cool floor, knees pulled up, back against the off-white paint.
I sit there for a long time. Just breathing. Letting the light move across the floor as I simply exist.
****
I stay on the studio floor until the light turns softer and the ache in my chest settles into something quieter. When I finally stand up, my legs feel a little unsteady, but my hands have stopped shaking. I take one last look at the three drawings on the wall before leaving the studio.
I lock the door behind me and start down the corridor. My mind is still half inside that room when I turn the corner and almost bump into someone.
A tall guy with a camera hanging around his neck stumbles back a step. He's carrying a big black bag and has that slightly rumpled look on his face. I know practically everyone seems tall to my 163cm height, but this guy is actually really tall, like 180cm+ tall.
"Sorry," I say quickly.
He rights himself, then tilts his head, studying me like he's trying to place something he can't quite name.
"New?" he asks.
I nod, offering a small, polite smile. "First day."
He gives me a short nod back, the corners of his mouth lifting just a fraction. "Welcome, then."
Before I can say anything else, he steps aside to let me pass. I keep walking, heart suddenly beating a little faster than the situation deserves. I don't look back, but I feel his eyes on me for a few seconds longer.
By the time I reach the apartment, it's already evening. The plant on the windowsill is still bravely pretending it wants to live – or maybe it really does? I sit on the edge of my bed, pull out my phone, and look at the photo of the three drawings on the studio wall. The light in the picture looks even softer than I remember.
I send it to Jingwei with no caption.
He replies faster than I expect.
Jingwei: Glad you're settling in.
I stare at the three words until they blur a little. Simple. Typical Jingwei. But somehow exactly right.
I smile tiredly at my phone – a real smile.
I think I will be able to make this place my home.