As I always do, I skip breakfast and pack my lab coat for chemistry practicals. My toes wrestle back and forth in my Mary Jane shoes while I feel my stomach sink.

I finally have permission to cross the school perimeter today after what seems like an eternity. Because it is a rare privilege within the confines of this all-residential school, the walls feel more like prisons than protective boundaries. I cannot cope with the monotony of the same faces, food, and environment every day. I joined four years ago, but I’ve never truly felt a part of this world. Once an outsider, always an outsider.

When I walk into the chemistry lab, everyone appears to know what they are doing, which sends me into a persistent state of dread. I studied all night and during the prep time, and I still need to figure out what’s going on or how others know how to approach the questions. I’m lost among the chemical formulae, pipettes, and test tubes.

I’m the space between what I’d like to be and what the school has made of me.

I might not even graduate this year as a crushing weight settles heavily on my chest. I received a call back from a street artist offering an assistant’s job to paint the walls of Baneshwar. They emailed me the studio address where she’ll take my interview, a potential escape from this cycle.

That’ll be my final stop.

I challenged myself to improve at art by scribbling on the back of my copy or mitochondrial doodles on my biology paper. I like the freedom it gives me. With every semester I fail, I feel like a torn canvas trying to be painted over.

I leave the school displaying my exeat to the security like a trophy. The sun has come up, giving out faint rays across the landscape. I booked a ride to Swayambhu, where everything is lush and green. I can almost hear my heartbeat echoing in the stillness here, soothing my frayed nerves. The emerald green trees and mauve flowers provide a comfort that the environs of my school never could.

After getting off the bike, I stroll around the Swayambhu area, holding an iPad that guides me to the studio’s location. I pass spots I’m familiar with, like the store where I used to shop for clothes—a faint comfort from a different time.

Step by step, I eventually make it to the studio, where the walls are splattered with abstract paint, rain, and mud—a witness to the artistic chaos inside. The structure is full of people who do not fear to have left a better fate behind after dedicating their lives to fine art.

Wearing an unironed, cramped blazer, I’m greeted by the sight of a girl with red curly hair and a septum ring. As the red-headed interviewer types on her laptop, I introduce myself.

“What made you apply here?” she asks, unexpectedly blending professionalism and warmth. She makes me feel at ease.

“I wanted something to look forward to,” I reply honestly, pulling out my neatly assembled portfolio from my cotton tote bag. The words come out more vulnerable than I intended.

After a series of scripted questions, we discuss the upcoming project dates and locations—something to anticipate. This tells me that this fleeting moment may not be my last stop.

She offers to show me the studio’s workspace. I nod with curiosity. The studio’s basement is the artists’ working space. This unfinished 8-foot-high portrait of the late King Birendra is inclined against the wall. The walls are half plastered with chestnut-coloured wood and half with light beige paint. Tiny booklets with drawings of Momo and Yomari sit on the timberwood shelf beside the entrance door.

Large windows let in natural golden light, which glides across the unkempt work tables.

I see the work tables covered in the small, dried-paint handprints of roughly four-year-olds comparable to my desk. Looking at it from an outsider’s perspective, what I thought was a mess is a raw state of art.

It’s almost dusk, and I think I should head out—but a nagging thought lingers—what if I hang out for an extra hour? I know I should leave, but I can’t end my life here.

I take a bus from Swayambhu to Budhanilkantha and come across this bakery called Blue Haven, which serves the best chocolate doughnuts in Narayanthan. This may be where I should end it all.

Seated at a small table, I take in everything around me. The child’s mom alerted him for not finishing his homework and the table’s imperfect cleanliness.

The menu was on the counter, with coconut and chocolate cookies on a straw shelf nearby. How lucky they are to have a sink full of dishes because the customers didn’t go without food and a table to clean from hundreds of customers dining in. And that they still have wrapped cookies, cupcakes, and cream rolls to serve.

I am busy with my phone when suddenly a guy orders a cup of tea. He’s wearing a black jacket and light-washed jeans. He uses a black wire headband to slide hair away from his eyes. The shop lady, noticing me, offers a cup. “Would you like some tea?” she asks, her voice approaching and gentle.

“Yeah, sure,” I reply, my voice nearly breaking as I accept the simple gesture that feels like a lifeline.

I texted a few people, letting them know I loved them one last time. Letting people know you are not doing well is a survival instinct.

I don’t even like tea. But here I am, nodding and sipping the hot drink with little to no sugar, thinking about how easy it is to reconnect with another human being truly.

Swiftly, I hear someone call out my name—just like my mom called me when I was little, just like when supper was ready, and I was reading phonetics in my front yard at seven. My heart aches for the familiar tone, but I can't recognise anyone when I turn my head to answer the call.

The dusk has settled, and it’s late, getting darker every second. The sky is a deep purple, almost violet, like the ink I used for my sixth-grade homework. It is the same sky under which I used to count stars, get tired, and fall asleep in my little blue chair.

The ground beneath my shoes sank as I realised that what I was about to end wasn’t just a chapter but an entire book. I’m yet to write a book. I feel the weight of my life, which once seemed overwhelming, tenderly held in my palms. It’s mine, and it won’t end here.

I sneak a muffin wrapped in yesterday’s paper and hide it from the security guard at the school gate. I go to my dorm to see Sereca and Kriti waiting, clenching my green-striped bed sheet, waiting for me to return.