The rejection arrives in soft language.
Juni reads it twice before it settles.
Thank you for your interest.
Strong portfolio.
Not the right fit at this time.
We'll keep your file.
He closes the email without replying.
The studio is quiet around him—too quiet. A few students linger at their desks, headphones in, absorbed in work that feels urgent and personal. Juni stares at his sketchbook, pencil resting uselessly between his fingers.
It isn't the first rejection.
It's the wording that stings.
Fit implies something inherent. Something you can't correct without changing yourself.
He doesn't text Elian.
Not because he's hiding it—but because he needs to sit with the disappointment before letting it be witnessed. Juni has learned, over time, that unprocessed hurt turns into something sharper when spoken too soon.
That evening, he works later than usual, refining a piece that no longer feels honest. He erases more than he draws.
On the walk home, his phone buzzes.
Elian: Long day?
Juni types Yeah and deletes it. Types Fine and deletes that too.
Juni: Still at studio. Don't wait up.
Elian responds almost immediately.
Elian: Okay. Text me when you're done.
Juni pockets the phone and keeps walking.
At home, he showers longer than necessary, letting the water run hot until the steam fogs the mirror. He studies his own reflection—tired, thoughtful, not broken.
We'll keep your file.
It sounds like kindness. It feels like suspension.
Later, lying in bed, he opens the email again. This time, he doesn't read the full message. He focuses on the date, the signature, the final line.
Then he closes it.
Tomorrow, he tells himself.
Tomorrow, he'll tell Elian.
Tonight, he lets the disappointment exist without being explained.
Not everything needs to be shared immediately to be real.