“I just feel like I failed somehow, you know?” Her hair scraped her shoulder blade as she turned to look at me.

“I know what it’s like to fail, but I don’t know what it’s like to be a success and still feel like you’ve done nothing, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“I’m not a success.”

“You’re one of the best artists I know. Your work sells like crazy.”

She sighed. “My parents always wanted me to be the world’s greatest lawyer.”

“That’s a terrible cliche. Not everyone grows up to be some big-shot lawyer or doctor or investment banker. What’s wrong with doing what you love?”

Her eyes may have been misting before but they were blazing now. “That’s exactly my point. Nobody tells you it’s okay to go to art school. They make fun of your major. The guidance counselors insist you do something more realistic. Your parents beg you to reconsider. And despite all that, I still went. I followed my heart and now I am doing what I love and I still don’t feel like it’s enough. I sound melancholy but I’m just angry. This is their fault.”

“High school was ten years ago,” I reminded her. She angled her body away from mine.

“The stuff people say sticks. I’m always going to doubt my work and feel like I’m a failure and wish I’d majored in political science and gone to law school.” She paused for a second. “I’m sorry. I don’t know why I’m telling you all of this.”

“I really do love your work. I mean that. I have it hanging all around my apartment.”

She looked up at the city sky. “This isn’t about you.”