Lucian "Luca" Varela slumped in his seat, staring at the exam results on his desk.

Math: 41%

Science: 39%

Economics: 22%

Physical Education: FAILED

A lump formed in his throat. Snickers rippled through the classroom. "Varela, how do you even get grades this low?"

Luca didn't have to look up to know it was Matteo Romano, the top student in class.

At the front of the room, Professor Ricci; their math teacher, let out a long sigh. He shuffled through papers, shaking his head. "Some of you have performed exceptionally well." He nodded toward Matteo and a few other students before turning his sharp gaze on Luca. "And then we have… disappointments."

Ricci lifted Luca's test for the entire class to see. A perfectly shaded drawing of a sinking ship covered the space where a math equation should have been.

The room erupted into laughter. Luca's face burned with shame.

"Tell me, Varela," Ricci said, voice dripping with sarcasm, "how exactly will this 'art' of yours help you survive in the real world? Do you plan to trade sketches for food?"

More laughter. Matteo leaned over with a smirk. "Maybe he can draw himself a brain."

Ricci sighed and flipped through the rest of Luca's test. "Ah, and what's this?" He turned another page, holding it up.

A sketch of the classroom so detailed that every expression, wrinkle and stray pencil was captured with haunting accuracy.

Some students gasped, not because they respected his talent, but because it made his failure even funnier.

"Perhaps we should hang this in a museum," Matteo said. "A Portrait of the Dumbest Student at Galileo Academy."

Even Ricci smirked before tossing the test onto Luca's desk. "Pack up your things, Varela. You can spend the rest of the period in the hallway."

Luca stood slowly with head down and his ears burning. As he walked toward the door, Matteo stuck out his foot.

Luca stumbled, barely catching himself on a desk. The class exploded with laughter. Someone clapped. Someone else whistled. It was a performance and Luca was the joke.

He pushed open the door and stepped into the hallway, his heartbeat pounding in his ears.

That evening, dinner at the Varela penthouse was silent. His father; Dr. Alessandro Varela read patient reports at the table. His mother, Valentina Rossi-Varela, scrolled through emails. Neither of them acknowledged Luca.

The house was cold more like a museum than a home. Luca poked at his food, his hands itching to draw something or anything. But in this house, art was forbidden.

Finally, his father spoke. "Your exam scores arrived." Luca said nothing. His father slid the report across the table.

"Math: 41%. Science: 39%. Economics: 22%. PE: Failed." His mother sighed. "Lucian. How much longer are you going to embarrass us?" Luca swallowed hard. "I….."

His father cut him off. "Enough excuses. What exactly do you want to do with your life?" Luca hesitated.

This was it. His chance to finally say it out loud. "I… I want to be an artist." Silence.

Then, his mother laughed. A short and sharp laugh like he had just told the world's dumbest joke. His father's face darkened. "An artist."

Luca nodded. "I can paint, I can draw…."

"You can waste time," his mother corrected. His father leaned forward, voice like ice. "Lucian, you are not an artist. You are a failure." Luca froze.

His father stood, straightening his tie. "We are done here." His mother pushed back her chair without another word. They had already moved on. Luca sat alone at the table, his appetite gone.

His dream had just been crushed under their expensive shoes.

Days passed. Luca stopped trying in class. What was the point? At school, he was mocked endlessly.

"Hey, Varela! Can you draw my homework since you can't do your own?"Do you take commissions, or do you only sketch failure?" Even teachers had given up on him. And at home? His parents barely acknowledged him.

They no longer asked about his grades. No longer looked at him during dinner. It was as if he didn't exist.

One night, Luca sat alone in his bedroom. His hands trembled as he reached for his sketchbook. Drawing was the only thing that had ever made sense to him. But now… Would it ever matter?

His fingers hesitated. And then, he ripped the pages out. Tore them apart.

One by one, his beautiful drawings scattered across the floor, torn and destroyed. Finally, he took what remained of the sketchbook and threw it into the trash. Art was worthless. And so was he.

The next evening as Luca walked home from school, he noticed something.

A man stood in a narrow alley, painting on a brick wall. His hands moved effortlessly, creating vibrant streaks of color that came to life under the city lights. Luca stopped, mesmerized.

The artist turned, sensing his stare. "You like what you see, ragazzo?" Luca hesitated. "It's… incredible." The artist grinned, wiping paint off his hands. "Then why do you look so lost?" Luca hesitated. He didn't know how to answer that.

The man studied him for a moment, then reached into his bag and pulled out a can of scarlet-red spray paint. He held it out to Luca.

"Go ahead." Luca blinked. "What?" "Paint something," the artist said, shaking the can before pressing it into Luca's hand. "You look like you need it."

Luca looked at the can, then at the half-finished mural on the wall. It was a chaotic mix of shapes and figures, colors bleeding into one another like a storm frozen in time.

He hesitated. He hadn't drawn anything since he destroyed his sketchbook. But something inside him ached to try. His fingers tightened around the cold metal. He lifted the can. Pressed the nozzle.

A burst of scarlet ink sprayed across the wall in a bold, unbroken stroke. For the first time in weeks, it felt like breathing after drowning. The artist watched him, nodding. "Not bad, ragazzo. What's your name?"

Luca hesitated. He thought about saying Lucian; his full name but it didn't feel right anymore.

That name belonged to the boy his parents abandoned. "…Luca."

The artist smirked. "Well, Luca, if you ever want to do more than just stare at walls, come back here tomorrow night."

Luca looked at him, unsure. "Why?" The artist stepped back, admiring his own work. "Because the city is a canvas, ragazzo. And you? You're an artist whether you like it or not."

Luca swallowed hard, gripping the spray can. He wasn't sure if that was true. But for the first time in his life…He wanted it to be.