Juni stops trying to outrun the pressure.
Instead, he lets it settle.
The studio becomes quieter—not empty, but intentional. He chooses a corner near the windows where the light shifts slowly across the floor. He works without headphones, listening to the ambient sounds of the building: footsteps, doors closing, distant conversation.
He sketches differently now.
Less correction. Fewer apologies on the page.
The new pieces don't ask to be liked. They occupy space the way Juni is learning to—without announcing themselves, without shrinking.
A faculty member pauses behind him one afternoon, watching longer than courtesy requires.
"There's a change here," she says eventually.
Juni doesn't look up. "Good or bad?"
"Clear," she replies. "You're not asking permission anymore."
Juni nods once and keeps working.
Later, when he shows Elian the pieces spread across the apartment floor, he waits—not for praise, but for recognition. Elian crouches beside him, careful not to step on anything, studying each piece quietly.
"These feel… grounded," Elian says.
Juni exhales. "They don't feel reactive."
"That's the difference," Elian replies. "They're yours."
They sit together on the floor, backs against the couch, the art surrounding them like quiet witnesses. Elian doesn't suggest changes. Juni doesn't ask for them.
Support doesn't always need direction.
That night, Juni realizes something subtle but important: institutions can destabilize access, question legitimacy, impose procedure.
But they can't erase work that exists.
His art doesn't respond to pressure by retreating.
It stays.