I chase
because I once lost it. When my chin stopped developing during puberty, my face became uneven and distorted. I went from a rosy-cheeked, cute child to a teenager with a deformed chin and skin that was both acne-scarred and dark. I desperately tried everything I could think of to regain the
I had lost—braces, strict diets, even stretching the skin around my chin, despite knowing it would never look normal again.
Until one day, as I stared at the pencil and eraser on my desk, it suddenly hit me: through art, I could create a
where
simply doesn’t exist. My experiences with
—or more precisely, the feeling of being ugly—didn’t end with insecurity. Half a year of being bullied in ninth grade left deep psychological wounds. Whenever I stepped into a new environment, I was always the first person others avoided. I had to work twice as hard to prove myself through my personality and abilities, just to hope people might see something—anything—beyond my appearance. And yet, there were always those looks—especially from girls who worshipped appearance—looks filled with baseless disgust. Once,
waiting for my parents to pick me up, a group of girls stood far away, giggling, betting on who could sit next to me the longest, treating being near me as if it were some kind of challenge. But the moment that truly broke me came later, when I placed a self-portrait I had just drawn beside a mirror to check for mistakes. The drawing was lovely, yet the reflection staring back at me felt distorted and clumsy. I couldn’t help comparing the two. That contrast made me understand something painful
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I always start every relationship at a “negative” level of goodwill, and even the smallest mistake might be enough for someone to hate me forever.
Maybe it was growth, or maybe it was just a way to escape, but I slowly learned to smile brightly in every photo—and
never look at them again. My gallery became filled only with landscapes and beautiful artworks made by other people. My eyes drifted away from
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and fixed themselves entirely on
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. I drew relentlessly, as if that “
where
doesn’t exist” was the only place I truly belonged. I wasn’t trying to please others anymore—I had to focus on improving my craft. Perfect body proportions, perfect perspective; I refused to let the distortions of my real appearance exist within the bright, beautiful
I created through art. And
, at some point, that
became so vivid that I forgot my
had ever existed. In my mind, there was only
—
shaped by my own hands and imagination. I regained confidence not by accepting my face, but by
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that the artistic
I had poured myself into was itself a part of my
.
Maybe I failed to reclaim the
I once had, maybe I failed to accept my appearance—but I chose to create my own
. That
began as still images, but now I want it to live, to move. I want that better
to have stories. I’m willing to trade days, weeks, even months in reality for just a few seconds of life inside that “
without
.” I want to bring that
closer to everyone—and to myself—so the insecure child I once was can
find a ray of happiness after all those years of trying endlessly.