Light poured through the house as the night fluttered away. When the sun achieved full vitality, beams of light reflected upon the glass table, the glass clock, the glass sofa, and glass everything, all through the clear glass walls of the house. Tommy never understood why he had to live in a house that gave him zero privacy. He knew his mother must have chosen it for a reason that made sense to her, but the glass house endlessly bothered him. For him, no reason could be worth the discomfort it created. 

Living with only reflective glass, he would sit on, observe through, and be discerned all through the means of the cold panels. It gave him ample time to reflect and to perceive the world, as nothing hindered his views. Some days, he thought he was locked in a glass cage, the invasive eyes of uninvited visitors peering into his house. The flashes of phones taking photos of him and the glass furniture mixed with the sunlight were blinding; he even saw frowns form when he refused to pose for their photos. However, sometimes, he found the glass appealing. It allowed him insight into different familial situations like the family of squirrels that collected acorns every morning together or the blue jays that consumed worms together on the oak tree. There was discomfort, but also serenity in his life, a true paradox. Though, he would constantly wake up every morning more restless than the day before. He continued to feel pangs of perturbation, why? Tommy hated what the house held and represented more than he appreciated what he gained from it. It held the delicate soul and body of his mother, someone who Tommy felt may break just as quickly as their house could. 

In his days of reflection, Tommy thought about himself and his ideals. He landed on one simple idea: in an earlier incarnation, he must have been a rose.  

With a garden filled with roses, Tommy knew much about them. He knew roses were the most delicate, attention-dependent flower, a symbol of love, purity, complexity, and other striking characteristics. They required constant watering, trimming, and guidance to fully bloom, the human equivalent of parental care and love. He must have pricked someone with one of his thorns in the past because his current experiences reflected that of a neglected rose, left to shrivel away. It pained him to wait for his next sip of water, a new soil refresh, and a simple gaze of admiration. These characteristics that showed weakness had stayed with him in this life, but he needed to change that. Determined to pursue a new path, he knew that someday, he needed to escape and break away from the other delicate people and counterparts around him if he wanted to live a new life, one filled with care, admiration, and love. 

–  June 14th, 2025 – 

At 4:30 AM, Tommy heard his mother open the window in her room that opened up to their garden. Putting his ear to the frosted door closing of her room, he could not see but instead listened to her crying out. Her tears held the effects of her husband’s absence, destroying her and creating a deep desire for love, acknowledgment, and effort. Though Tommy could not hear her very clearly, under her cries were words. This time to say her words out loud was the only thing that kept her going. Making sure no one was near, she would speak to the roses, sharing her own story- one full of hope but laced with guilt. She knew she was the reason Tommy could never prosper. Her constant desire for attention and care had left her with the inability to offer the same affection to her son. She would keep waiting though, every day, until she found her savior. Two hours later, she exhausted herself for the day, returning to her bed to sleep. This same cycle repeated the next morning, another rose left yearning for care. 

Pushing himself away from her door, Tommy delicately grasped the handle of the front door, escaping the horrendous house that held the desolate desperation of his mother and him. Every morning when his mother stopped crying, he left the house unnoticed by his mother. However today he had a special errand since it was National Rose Day. He had to go get a new packet of rose seeds from Frêle’s Floral Shop.

Trying to remain distant from Frêle, Tommy slipped through the aisles and got his seeds. By planting new seeds each year, Tommy hoped to give flowers the love and care they deserved. It should not be a privilege to be cared for, one of Tommy’s most important beliefs. Ready to pay with the cash his father left for him and his mother every month, Tommy finally faced Frêle. Her reputation preceded her since she was known for her brittle, delicate personality. She would hide from people, especially after past events that shattered her self-confidence. She immersed herself in flowers, allowing herself to slowly bloom with them. Tommy saw parts of him in her and that terrified him. It made him feel vulnerable since he was doing the same. Was he putting endless care in his roses to make up for his lack of love, leaving him to never pursue his freedom? Confusion coursed through his mind, and the desire to leave everything took over. But still, he was unsure about leaving his mother since she was and will always be his soil. Though, as a delicate soul herself, she needed someone to put her roots in, how could she be a rose without her own soil? 

On his way back home, Tommy looked through his mother’s open window and saw her lying motionless on the bed. For the first time in a week since he dared to lay eyes on her, Tommy felt immense guilt. He knew he would always be her son, but it did not feel that way. It was not his fault her husband was absent, so why did she treat him as though it was? His father was the one who chose to leave him, but his mother also left. In the past five years since her husband’s departure, she never asked Tommy how his day was. She never cooked lunch for him. She never hugged him. She never went with him to get groceries. She would never eat a meal with him, choosing to eat at midnight, in the utter dark. She chose to have the whole house be glass, all for her to hide away from the reality of life. Only physically present to visitors and Tommy, she remained emotionally unavailable. She brought a rose into life with the known knowledge that they require love, yet she only made him count the days for a new beginning, one free from its toxic provider. Her life was of a rose and soil, though she was failing in both aspects. 

– 2 years later –

 Absolute devastation travels through the cold, desolate house. The world could look in and see the dejected eyes of the mother, the hollowed identity of Tommy, and the fear. The only aspect of their house that had glowed throughout the years were the roses Tommy poured his soul into. Now, though, they were nothing but an array of shriveled petals, muted in color, strewn across the yard, and suffocating the soil. 

The emotional toll of living in this suffocating glass house had built up. He incessantly craved a chance to find comfort and tranquility, he could no longer wait. He wished he was normal and had a loving family, but he never got that. He got cold shoulders from outsiders and abandonment from his mother. The financial backing of his father helped support Tommy and his mother, but was that enough? Did it allow his father to abandon him, causing Tommy to be alone in this cruel world? He finally understood how his mother must feel, he no longer could care for his roses as he used to. Tommy thought and thought, he had ample time to do so. Till the sun went down, the house allowed in light to glare at him and his mother.

This morning, instead of going out to physically escape his reality, Tommy decided he needed to talk to his mother. He was at his breaking point and knew he was losing his chance of finally becoming a strong, beautiful rose. His mother was still delicate, and he knew it was likely too late to save her. Still, he wanted to sit with her and finally gain her motherly love. So, Tommy decided to explain to her that he was still present even though his father was not. Maybe he could help her feel less lonely and seek company in him. Set on this plan, Tommy approached his mother. Seeing her at the window, he knew this would be his best chance. He said hello, but his mother did not turn. He said he was feeling sad and miserable, yet she did not console him. He said he felt broken, but his mom did not try to mend him. She lay, waiting for his last petals to fall on her.

Crack. Tommy shattered the glass table, the glass chairs, the glass plates, the glass doors, the glass everything. He ran outside and took a long glance at his withered roses. Looking at it, he felt obsolete: he failed to be a rose and soil. His purpose was gone, he had no soil to prosper through and ultimately no reason left to stay. He had become his mother, unable to nurture himself and others. He had to put himself first, it was his only change. With one last glance through the glass, he left. 

Crack. Tommy’s mother had heard everything her son said. Fixated on the fallen petals in the garden, she was ashamed and destroyed. She chose to encase her house in glass to keep light in, one of the biggest contributors to a rose’s nutrition. That was not enough though and she knew it. The one thing a flower needs to survive, which if absent would cause imminent death, is soil. It was what she was hopelessly waiting for, something Tommy knew he could never receive unless he left her. Looking out the window, she saw the sun shining on the fallen petals, and that destroyed her and her fragile heart.

I gaze at her; she is all I can see. I try to squint and see her limbs, hair, and expression. All I see instead of these features is an extreme aura radiating from her and the art in her sexuality. Her virtue has a distinct appeal, and I feel lost. I often try to do my subject’s due diligence, but how can I do that with her with just a pen stroke? My eyes go blind. I can no longer see her curves, lips, eyes, or anything.  As does the sun, she holds me in a trance. She is beautiful. Anything I try will never do her justice. 

The color of her smooth skin, flushed cheeks, supple breasts, and radiant, thick hair is suppressed by moonshine. A single eclipse would wash her skin, leaving her beauty to diminish or vanish entirely; I was sure of it. As an artist, I knew that the beauty in front of me could not be truly acknowledged just by my simple eyes. How could I ever try to paint a rendition?

As creatures, we often seek to find the unique, appealing traits of everyone around us. The appearance and disposition of others matter, regardless of what we believe. Unintentional judgments and beliefs hold as much value as calculated ones. Just as a small stone enters the water, the impact of these traits make ripples in the human mind is still clear: first impressions matter. 

So, what is my first impression of her? Of course, it was never the physical attributes. It was her confidence. She is proud of who she is. Her stature, poise, lifted head, and set eyebrows all track this belief. She embraces her identity, accepts her sexuality and presence, and soaks in the societal attitudes around her. She is herself and will always be herself, even if implored not to be. She is the definition of my art: redoubtable beauty.

My journey as a portrait painter has been focused on the central question: is life an imitation of art or is art an imitation of life? This may never be answered, but in moments such as these, I find neither true. Life is impossible without art and who would make art if there was no life? We must fully forget independence in art, this scenario is the pinnacle evidence that art relies on the dependency of the world and vice versa. We mustn’t forget who we are beyond our words, relations, choices, and expressions. The world will continue to spin, beauty will continue to be blinding, and most of all, art will be present. 

I look back at my blank canvas. Guilt seeps in. She will think her body is repelling and she will never return. I have to paint something, I have to. I look at my palette, and it comes to me. I will draw what she makes me feel: certainty for the future.

Under the stained glass window sat Anna, surrounded by a heap of novels and notebooks. As recurring as the sunrise hitting the panels of glass was Anna’s visit to her local university’s library. Throwing her bike under the oak tree, she would sneak through the fire escape to sit at her “hidden” spot. In the five years she had kept this routine, she was never disturbed by anyone. Her books and her chair always remained in the same spot as she would leave it the previous evening. The only two things that changed were the wooden desk she claimed as home base, an evolving victim to the countless markings Anna had created while studying, and the students who would work on the level beneath her. Other than that, her surroundings seemed perpetually uniform.

From her space, she had a hawk’s eye of the library’s chaos. Some days it was a calm lull and others it was a restless tide that disturbed her from her work. There were the students who came in alone: shoulders hunched, face pinched, carrying the burden of a backpack teeming with what could only be their books, computer, and headphones. There were those who came in groups: laughing relentlessly, distracted by every little noise, and often connected in a feeling of group suffering of needing to study. Her favorite type of student to see on the lower level was that who observed as she did. A sufficient number of students fell under this category, but one individual stood out to her in particular, someone whose hazel eyes darted around the room, capturing Anna’s attention. That was all it did; Anna would fixate on the behaviour of this individual for a few minutes until she focused on her own work.

Even though there was a clear view of the lower level from Anna’s little spot, she knew that they could not see her from up there. She never dared to step foot and guarantee this claim for herself, but something about this space under the sill seemed invisible. So, when on a Tuesday at 1:30 pm, Anna climbed up the stairs to her spot, it was to her surprise that her seat was occupied. Her books were no longer chaotically organized on the quaint, reclaimed wood table. No, in fact, her plush blanket was draped across the back of this person. Her cupboard of snacks was open, and Anna’s eyes trailed to her tin of butter cookies haphazardly thrown on the floor, empty. Confused and curious, she tapped on their shoulder- pulling them away from their computer which was playing a viewing of the latest rocket launch. Their words did not register, the only thing Anna saw were the same piercing hazel eyes that were now looking directly into her own. Anna could only wonder what this girl must be thinking- was she categorizing Anna into a group of students as she does? Which one would she fall under? So, the table was visible? Anna must have been staring for quite a while because the girl spoke with some emphasis, introducing herself as Lainey. Entranced by the stain window, she wanted to get a closer look. Stumbling on a door that was overshadowed by the library’s main entrance, she climbed up a tight, eerie staircase and found this nook. I thought I would be the first to find this spot, the first to explore the place I come to every day. I can see it’s lived in, though; I am glad. It would be a shame to leave such a beautiful place untouched. Well, I must go now. I do believe you would want to keep it the way you had before. Anna nodded instinctively, though she felt something in her stomach that resembled how she felt when she saw a new face come into the library. 

In the five years she had come to this space, she was disturbed by only one person. Her books moved and were often smothered by Lainey’s. Her chair was now on the other side of the desk, facing a taller, more plush chair. The only thing that remained the same was that the desk continued to grow more deformed and the window continued to pass light.