By: Isita
“Three… Two… One… Happy New Year!”
Priscilla Yuri Kim stared at her screen, her head throbbing and her hands clammy. A new year.
Her phone began to buzz incessantly, notifications flooding in from websites she had signed up for just to get coupons. The noise was overwhelming, but none of the messages were personal.
The moon shone brightly outside her window. Seeking a moment of solace, she crawled out onto the roof of her townhouse. The humid summer night in Australia blew through her hair. Another year had arrived, yet nothing felt different.
Her phone rang.
“Yeoboseyo, eomma. Jal jinaeyo?” Her voice cracked as she spoke.
Moving away from home had been a mistake. If she were in New York, she’d be surrounded by her siblings right now, dipping fish cakes into tteokbokki while playing some silly family game. The New Year’s Eve ball drop would be on in the background tv screen, competing with the off-key tunes from their karaoke machine.
Through the phone, she could hear the chaos of her family celebrating. Her side of the line was silent, loneliness wrapping around her like an unwanted guest.
The contrast to her life a year ago made her question everything. She remembered the day she told her parents about the prestigious scholarship to study art at the University of Sydney. Her father had frowned deeply.
“Art? Bichoso?” he had questioned her sanity. Her father had always disliked her hunching over sketchbooks, urging her to “spend her time wisely.”
But her mother had defended her, and now she was here—perched illegally on a third-floor roof, alone, while her roommates were likely out in bars, holding strangers in drunken embraces.
“Jeonhwa kkeunh-eoyo, eomma.” Priscilla ended the call and sighed.
She opened her sketchbook, its pages a visual diary of her life. Most of it was vibrant—water lilies in the sky, paper angels holding her up. But the past year’s entries were different: dark, messy, and haunted by demons. Her art had become a reflection of her struggles.
She missed her father. Appa, who taught her to ride a bike. Appa, who made bibimbap with her on rainy days.
Her phone buzzed again.
“Yuri-a, annyeong. It’s your dad.” His voice was hesitant, unfamiliar after a year and a half of silence.
“Appa.” She wanted to tell him he’d been right, that she regretted everything. But the words caught in her throat.
“I am proud of you.” His voice broke through her thoughts. A pause followed, giving the words time to settle. “I’m proud you’re doing what you love. Can you come home for spring break?”
The call ended as formally as it began, but the warmth in his tone lingered. It wasn’t the grand declaration of support she had imagined, but it was enough—a child’s hands shielding the fragile flame of her dreams in the rain.
Priscilla smiled faintly and turned back to her sketchbook. This time, she sketched something new. The shadows receded, replaced by her family’s familiar, cheeky smiles.
For the first time in months, the page felt alive.