A smudged canvas.

There's a blank canvas in front of her. Nearby are paints, brushes. She sits looking at the absence of her work. There is another brush in her hand. It hangs in the air, not touching the linen. Thoughts rush through her mind, she wishes she could strangle them. Strangle herself. Why can't she just stop thinking? A certain figure appears nearby, whispering. "You have to get better." "Not good enough." Her hand tenses, gripping the brush tighter. A deep inhale, an exhale. Calm down. She dips the brush into the cool colors, and her gaze goes back to the white canvas. What does she even have to paint? She hears incoherent whispering, without absolutely any meaning. Her head hurts. Then, she swipes at the canvas, color appearing under the brush. She reaches down and stops. A line. She blinks and it feels like she can't open her eyes anymore. Sigh. There are more voices behind her, so familiar. Her eyelids lift tiredly and she turns around. She sees her friends, one of them smiling warmly, praising the other for her lyrics. She feels betrayed. When will they pay attention to her? When will they say she's good and her work is really great? Or maybe... The figure of her father stands before her. She wrinkles her nose, and hears again that she has no talent for drawing. The girl turns back to the canvas. A storm suddenly unfolds in her soul, what is she doing wrong? Why does everyone treat her as if she is just an ordinary gray mass? Why doesn't anyone notice her? Why, why, why?! She spews her emotions onto the canvas, furiously running her brush across the canvas. It's not even a drawing. So what? Is she an artist? Why does she even bother to paint when everyone around her tells her she'll never make it!? Tears well up in the corners of her eyes, no crying. She isn't allowed to. She wipes them away immediately, but it gets worse. Her shoulders shake. In a blurry look, she stares at the "drawing". A mess. Why does she need these selfies, this love, this recognition and this attention? She stands up abruptly, causing the stool to fall to the floor. Tears roll down her cheeks, burning them. She must look terrible right now. The girl kicks her foot on the stool where the paints and brushes are. It hurts. She hits the canvas, causing it to fall to the floor too. Her lips fold into a thin line, and immediately a sob is heard. No painting. No more pain. She will quit her hobby. Quit Nightcord, find another thing to do, run away. Run away from it all. She drops to her knees and tosses the brush into a dusty corner of the room. Clutches the brown dress with her hands. Then, she feels a hand on her shoulder, a soft touch. But it doesn't make her calm down. She doesn't lift her head. It's the painful shadow again, she's sure of it. She hears someone take a seat next to her. She shakes her head, unable to say a word. "Go away, please." She prays in her thoughts. But no one hears her, so they doesn't go away. The person next to her squeezes her own shoulder a little tighter, but it doesn't hurt. The girl tries to calm down, it's embarrassing to cry like that in front of people. She decides to look and turns her head, when the blur disappears she sees a painfully familiar silhouette. She sees pink hair tied back in a ponytail at the side, eyes the same color. A worried expression on his face. The girl freezes in surprise as the tears roll down. The young man next to her suddenly wraps his arms around her, pulling her close and stroking her back. A couple seconds later he feels the same touch on his own, soft at first. Then the girl clings on him, as if she lets go - and would be left all alone again in this pain-filled place. He feels how wet his shoulder and clothes are getting. Let it be. His other hand involuntarily goes up to the top of the girl's head, stroking it. - You're amazing, Ena. - says the young man softly, and feels the body he's embracing grow tenser. His lips spread into a soft smile. He doesn't know how it will help, but he wants his smile to spread to the girl. - You're talented. You deserve so much attention, your work is clearly underrated. - She doesn't want to hear it, but her heart says otherwise. She's done with drawing. She doesn't need it anymore. She will throw away all the brushes, the clipboard, the canvases, the paper, the sketchbooks, the colored pencils, the paints. Everything. It's all going in the trash. - Your work is always top-notch, you're my favorite artist. - He speaks in a calm, soft tone. She feels like her heart is about to shatter into a thousand pieces. But he puts them back together. He whispers a quiet "rest" and she covers her eyes. It feels somewhat nice. He looks at her scattered paints and painted canvas and hugs her a little tighter. Creative people are always hard and painful, aren't they? Practice, practice and more practice.... He wonders how many such and similar words the girl heard in her address? She must be tired. Tired of wanting to be better than others, to be recognized, to get attention to her work. Her eyelids droop with tears, but then a tired smile colors her face. Maybe she'll start trying again. And it's a never-ending circle.