The Fifth-Floor Dreamer

I lived on the fifth floor of an old apartment building.

Not in a city of art, not in a place where dreams were celebrated—just a simple street, forgotten by most.

But inside me, something was always awake.

A dream. A fire.

I wanted to be an artist. Not just someone who paints—but someone the world remembered.

But dreams don’t grow easily where support doesn’t exist.

There was no mentor, no guide, not even a friend who truly believed I could do it.

Art was just a “hobby” to them.

“Be realistic,” they’d say.

“Art doesn’t pay the bills.”

“Fame? From here? Don’t be silly.”

But what they didn’t know was…

I had already made up my mind.

I began with what I had: old sketchbooks, broken pencils, cheap watercolors.

The walls of my fifth-floor room became my gallery.

Every night, I painted in silence while the world slept—pouring my heart into every brushstroke.

There were times I’d cry while painting.

Not because I was weak.

But because I felt strong enough to believe in something no one else could see.

My room had one small window.

I’d open it late at night and look up at the stars.

I used to whisper, “I’ll get there one day. Maybe not today. But someday.”

The world outside didn’t change.

The noise was still there—doubt, fear, rejection.

People still laughed behind my back, saying I was wasting time.

But slowly, quietly, something inside me changed.

I wasn’t just chasing success anymore.

I was chasing the version of me who didn’t quit.

There were many days I wanted to give up.

Days when I’d post my art online, and not a single person would notice.

Days when I compared myself to famous artists and felt like a shadow.

Days when I questioned if I was just lying to myself.

But every time I stood on the edge of giving up, I asked myself:

“If I stop now… will I ever forgive myself?”

And every time, the answer was no.

So, I kept going.

I studied from free tutorials, learned from strangers who had once been dreamers too.

I followed artists who inspired me—not to copy them, but to understand them.

Their struggles looked like mine. That gave me hope.

One night, I painted something that felt different.

It wasn’t perfect—but it was honest.

It held emotion. Pain. Hope.

I titled it: Still Dreaming on the Fifth Floor.

I posted it online, like many pieces before it.

But this time… something happened.

It got shared. Then reshared.

A popular art page reposted it and called it “hauntingly beautiful.”

People started messaging me—some were strangers, some were quiet friends who never said much before.

One comment read:

“I don’t know who you are… but I felt your soul in this.”

That night, I cried again.

This time, the tears didn’t taste like sadness.

They tasted like validation. Like warmth. Like hope.

It wasn’t fame—not yet.

But it was a beginning.

And beginnings matter.

After that, I kept creating. Not because I wanted applause—but because I found purpose.

The love for art wasn’t something I could explain.

It was something I lived. Something that healed me.

And the more I painted, the more I grew.

I started getting featured in small exhibitions.

People started remembering my name.

I sold my first painting to a girl who said, “This reminds me of my mother.”

That was more powerful than any paycheck.

Over time, success followed.

Not in the form of luxury—but in the form of love.

Recognition.

Purpose.

I still live on the fifth floor.

Same window. Same tiny room.

But now, that space is sacred.

That room once held a girl who everyone doubted.

Now, it holds a woman who believed anyway.

People call me a success story now.

But I know the truth.

Success isn’t becoming famous.

Success is continuing when it was easier to quit.

I’m still the Fifth-Floor Dreamer.

And I’m still dreaming.