Amelie Durand

I stare out the window of my school in Lyon, France, as Madame Fournier drones on about some 19th-century poem. The words bounce off me, meaningless, like raindrops against the window. I’ve got my sketchbook hidden under my desk, doodling absentmindedly. Today, it’s a chaotic swirl of faces, shapes, and random lines. I’ve lost track of how many times I’ve drawn the same corner of my desk just to pass the time.

It’s not that I’m lazy. I just… don’t fit here. School feels like a prison, each day dragging on, lesson after lesson that I know I’ll never need. Like, when am I ever going to need to analyze a poem again? Or calculate the circumference of some random shape? I can’t imagine any of that mattering when I’m painting or sculpting.

The bell rings, finally. I shove my things into my bag and head for the door. No one notices me. I like it that way, honestly. I have a few friends, sure, but they don’t really get it. They talk about university plans and how much they need to ace the next math test. I couldn’t care less. I’m 15, and I already know what I want: art. Pure, raw art that doesn’t need a grade or approval.

On my way home, I stop by the art supply store near Place Bellecour. It smells like paint and paper, and it always feels like a little escape from reality. I pick up a few new pens, thinking about how I’ll use them tonight. My room is where I come alive, the walls covered in drawings, the floor scattered with ideas. I don’t need school, and I definitely don’t need some teacher telling me how to be creative. I just need this—the feeling of ink on paper, of expressing something no one else can.

At home, I toss my school stuff into the corner and grab my sketchbook. This is where I belong. In my world, not theirs.