I wasn't a bad artist.
After all, I had spent several years wearing out the seats at an architecture school. Even if you trained a cow there long enough, it would at least learn how to sketch a decent patch of grass.
The counselors abandoned their work and leaned closer, watching my hand move across the paper.
Angela turned completely toward me now, studying every line I drew.
When the sketch was finished—still a little messy because I had rushed it—the old counselors and Angela stared at it with the same astonished expressions people might wear when seeing Leonardo da Vinci's Mona Lisa for the first time.
One of the elderly counselors lifted the paper with trembling hands, her face glowing with emotion.
Then suddenly she rushed toward me.
For a split second I panicked.
If the woman lost control and planted a kiss on me, my youthful life would officially be over.
Fortunately, she stopped just in time.
Instead, she patted my shoulder enthusiastically.
"In all my years here," she said, almost tearfully, "this is the first time I've seen an inmate draw so beautifully! Thank you so much. Our school newspaper will definitely win an award this time!"
I had to admit—it felt good being praised.
But Angela's reaction nearly stopped my heart entirely.
"Marco," she said softly, "you draw so well. You should teach me sometime."
At that moment I honestly wanted to scream:
Now I finally understand what drugs feel like.
Because the strange lightness inside my chest was exactly the feeling addicts always described when they talked about getting high.
Life inside a place like this twisted every emotion into something new.
If you have ever felt the simple pleasure of sitting on a plastic chair by the roadside, sipping cheap coffee, and somehow enjoying it as much as a luxury cappuccino in a five-star hotel…
Then congratulations.
You probably just came out of prison.
Things that once seemed ordinary suddenly became precious when freedom disappeared.
A girl complimenting you.
A girl paying attention to you.
Out in the real world, that was normal for me.
But inside this place…
It felt extraordinary.
I was still floating in that strange happiness when the counselor suddenly delivered another devastating blow.
"Marco," he said while flipping through a stack of records, "weren't you studying architecture before?"
I turned toward him slowly.
He held my file in his hands, eyes shining like Christopher Columbus discovering America.
It had probably been a long time since the center admitted someone with even a hint of an academic background, so the discovery excited him more than it should have.
I recovered my composure and nodded calmly, wearing the most modest and intelligent expression I could manage.
Beside me, Angela gasped quietly.
The old counselor looked at me with heartbreaking sympathy and sighed.
"Such a handsome, educated young man… why did you have to ruin your life with drugs?"
I gave her a funeral expression.
Even though I knew it wouldn't help, I repeated the same sentence I had been saying since the day I arrived.
"I'm not an addict, ma'am."
She didn't even bother responding.
In her eyes, every inmate claimed the same thing.
But Angela was different.
She tugged lightly on my sleeve.
"Are you serious, Marco?" she whispered. "You don't seem like the others here."
My heart warmed instantly.
For a moment I almost hugged her out of gratitude.
Instead, I simply smiled.
"I'm telling the truth. Thank you, Angela."
Her eyes widened.
"Wait… how do you know my name?"
I scratched my head.
"Come on. The day you arrived, everyone in the center was talking about you. I've probably heard your name a hundred times a day."
She pouted like a stubborn child.
"I don't care."
You may not care… but I definitely do, I thought.
Just as the conversation was beginning to flow, the elderly counselor suddenly interrupted us again—completely ignoring the most basic rules of timing.
He placed a thick stack of papers in front of me.
"Marco, could you look over these poems for us?"
I shot him a murderous glance.
Can't you see two people are having a perfectly good conversation here?
But politely I said,
"Of course, sir. Let me take a look."
Suppressing my irritation, I flipped through the pages.
I swear, I had never seen so many animals inside poetry before.
Frogs seemed to be jumping across every single line.
Most of them were written in free verse, which basically meant there were no rhymes, no rules, and occasionally no meaning either.
On top of that, the handwriting was so crooked I had to spend half an hour deciphering each poem like a codebreaker.
The counselor watched my confused face nervously.
"So… are they good?"
I tried not to laugh.
"I think they're… acceptable."
He sighed with relief.
"I thought so too! We kept encouraging the students to write poetry but nobody wanted to help, so the counselors had to write them ourselves."
Cold sweat immediately formed on my forehead.
Apparently politeness had its advantages.
Encouraged by my response, the counselor asked eagerly,
"Which one do you think is the best?"
I scratched my head.
Most of them were disasters.
But one poem stood out. The handwriting was neat and elegant, and the lines actually made sense.
I pointed at it.
"This one is quite good."
The counselor looked slightly disappointed.
It was probably not her poem.
Angela, however, suddenly lit up with excitement.
"That's mine!" she said proudly. "Is it really good, Marco?"
Her reaction caught me completely off guard.
Normally I hated saying things that went against my conscience.
But she had placed me in a difficult position.
So I smiled.
"It's very good, Angela. You definitely have talent."
Her eyes sparkled happily.
Apparently my compliment worked like a small injection of happiness.
The elderly counselor seized the opportunity.
"Marco, you must write well too. People who draw usually have artistic souls. Could you write a few pieces for the newspaper?"
For a brief moment I considered volunteering to write erotic stories for the school newspaper.
But the counselors were all over fifty.
I doubted their hearts could survive such shock.
So I scratched my head awkwardly.
"I can write a little. I'm quite free these days, so maybe later."
The older counselor, clearly experienced in dealing with addicts, gave me a knowing smile.
"No need to arrange anything. From now on, you and Angela will be the core of this newspaper project. Come help us during office hours. If the newspaper wins an award, we won't forget your contribution."
I didn't care about any awards.
But the moment he used Angela as bait…
I knew I was walking straight into a trap.
And I stepped into it willingly.
Angela didn't seem to object either.
In fact, the way she looked at me now was completely different from how she looked at the other guys in the center.
Maybe she had poor eyesight.
After all, she had never stood this close to me before.
So she hadn't yet discovered the hidden charm that I possessed.
***
We talked a little longer, joking and discussing ideas for the newspaper until someone suddenly glanced at the wall clock.
It was already dinner time.
The counselor smiled and waved his hand.
"It's time to eat. You two should head to the dining hall before the food runs out. Come back tomorrow."
You two.
Those simple words sounded unbelievably intimate.
For a moment I almost jumped forward and hugged the old man in gratitude.
But I resisted.
Angela might misunderstand my orientation.
Instead, I turned toward her confidently.
"Shall we go eat, Angela?"
She nodded softly.
"Okay."
And just like that, we walked out of the office together.
I didn't know it yet…
but the moment we stepped into the dining hall side by side,
The entire rehabilitation center was about to experience something very close to an earthquake.