It's past midnight. The world outside has gone still—even the streetlights hum softer, as if trying not to disturb whatever sadness clings to the edges of my room. I'm curled in my chair, brush in hand, paint staining my fingers like bruises. I should sleep. I have a class tomorrow. I have a life to live. But none of that matters right now.
I'm worried. I'm sad. I'm hurt. And I don't know what to do. So I paint. Like always.
The canvas in front of me is already primed, the underlayer dry. I stare at it too long before I even begin, fingers trembling slightly from exhaustion or nerves or both. There's no plan this time. No sketch, no pencil lines to guide me. Just color. Just instinct.
I've painted my rage before—angry, sharp reds and black strokes that clawed across the canvas like wounds. But now ... now I want to paint my worries. My confusion. The ache that won't name itself.
