"This drawing is for you - Humanities"

The scorching early summer sun blazed down, as if compensating for all the waiting after a long winter. I sat absentmindedly, counting the sunbeams filtering through the trees onto the courtyard. Here, a few groups of students sat around, engrossed in their computers. There, a student was intently reading a book. It was the middle of the second class period, and the space was strangely silent, only occasionally broken by a murmur. Time ticked by, tick-tock, tick-tock. I sighed, closing my sketchbook. The scene of the yellow buildings, the two parallel rows of trees, the neatly arranged stone benches below—everything was so familiar that it was still vivid even with my eyes closed. Yet, for some reason, it was so difficult to paint. I erased and messed around for an hour, but still found it monotonous, lacking so much. Putting down my pen, I closed my eyes, smiling wistfully.

During my high school years, I harbored the dream of becoming a journalist, dedicating myself to travel and writing. A small turning point ended that dream, and I resigned myself to choosing the Faculty of Humanities as a safe haven. This school was just a name on paper to me. I wasn't particularly enthusiastic about it, nor did I want to open my heart to it. My feelings for other places were so strong that I couldn't accept the disappointing replacement. For a long time, the thought of going to school was incredibly burdensome. There were times when I resented myself for being unapproachable, for trying to fit in, but only in an unnatural and awkward way. I wasn't someone who could do that well. So, my days here were filled with sighs of relief, time slipping away silently. Looking back over three years, there were many smiles, but they lacked genuine vitality; a few things happened, but they didn't become cherished memories.

For me, winter is slow, cold, and quiet. In my memory, winter is always associated with a gray sky. Summer is different; it's hot, but fresh and radiant. I don't know when it started, but I've developed a habit of looking forward to summer. The feeling is that if I just wait a little longer, just a little longer, another exam season, I'll be free to roam in my own little world. I've always thought I'd be happy at the thought of saying goodbye to this place. I've always thought that perhaps it would all be like that.

Summer of my third year arrived again, and I still strolled leisurely through the schoolyard. A few new names had become etched in my memory, along with a few nods of greeting to a few unfamiliar faces that passed by. Suddenly, while sitting alone in this familiar space, I felt a desire to record my feelings on paper—a mixture of strangeness and familiarity. Three years had passed, and no matter how indifferent I had been, this place silently held a touch of nostalgia, not a large or vivid memory, but enough to stir my heart at the thought of leaving it. The vision I had envisioned for so long suddenly lacked the same excitement I had anticipated.

I stood up, neatly arranging my pen and notebook in my bag. I hurried home before the noisy students' class ended. The drawing for this place, perhaps, should be reserved for another occasion, when my feelings are clearer, without any forced effort. After a few steps, I turned back, still maintaining a faint smile on my lips, a smile that resembled a sigh more than joy. Like the long passage of time, like the way this place exists in my memory.