I woke up one morning to a sky that looked the same, but nothing felt right anymore. The colors seemed muted, like someone had sucked the vibrancy out of the world while I slept. My studio smelled faintly of turpentine and old paint, but today it smelled like betrayal. Every canvas, every brushstroke, every unfinished attempt at something beautiful—mocking me.I didn’t go to class. I didn’t answer my phone. I didn’t care if anyone noticed. Even Cole’s texts went unanswered, unread, left to pile up into the little guilt-weighted mountains he probably didn’t even realize were there.I stacked my canvases, one by one, on the floor. My hands shook, not from anger but from exhaustion—the kind that burrows into your bones and leaves nothing but raw, hollowed-out space where your joy used to live. I pulled a lighter from the kitchen drawer, a tiny flame licking the edges of the nearest canvas. The smell of burning oil paint hit me, choking, but I didn’t stop.They burned slowly at first, cur
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