Haitian Ran

Ran Haitani was a serious and egocentric man. Most girls didn't approach him for fear of rejection, for fear of not being "pretty" enough to be with him. He was the kind of guy who spent most of his time alone in class. He was cold, but when he wanted to be, he could be the most intense person. He's the kind of guy who, on the outside, seems cold, arrogant, and very ambitious—and he is—but inside he's very warm, with fears and aspirations, desires and dreams. He's a guy who's just scared, who wants to be everything without giving up what he loves. I met Ran the day he came to painting class. He was strange, a boy who seemed to never want his clothes stained, who focused on magazines or fashion, going to painting classes, where blank canvases are a sea of ​​possibilities, colors are your way of expressing yourself, and artistic creations represent your personality. Maybe that's why he went there; he was looking for an escape from reality, a break from the chaos of his world. I only spoke to him a couple of times, and he turned out to be different from what Ran seemed … It was recess, everyone was in the hallways talking, lost in their own world. I approached him while holding a painting wrapped in gift paper . I made this for you. I handed it to him. The teacher had assigned us a painting that would make us feel both warmth and loneliness, and I decided to paint him. When Ran tore the paper and saw the painting, for a moment I could see a glimmer of light in his eyes, the same light he used to have when he painted in the studio. But when his friends saw the painting, they started making fun of him and shouting rude and hurtful comments. "It's obvious you've been spending all your afternoons with the weirdos from the painting club." I overheard the boys' comments, and Ran sighed and said, " Who gave you permission to paint me?" Her tone was annoyed. "It's obvious she's one of my many admirers, and apparently she's crazy," she said, looking at her friends.

Who gave you permission to paint me? Without saying a word, I took the paint in my hands. I didn't feel pain, but rather disappointment at the thought that he would be different, that upon entering the painting club he could be himself without trying to impress others. I see now that I was wrong… That was the last thing I said before leaving him alone with his group of "friends".