I am a creature of habit—neurotically so. Without my meticulously planned routine, I’d shatter into irreparable pieces. Each day, I rise at five, no matter the occasion. I dress, blend a smoothie, and run by five-thirty. Back by seven, I shower, eat breakfast, and then retreat to my studio. I follow this relentless schedule to stay afloat amidst a sea of faceless, indistinguishable people.

My life is a façade. I tell myself I belong and suppress the nausea clawing at my insides. I pretend, swallow, and smile until I can escape to my studio, where I confront my soul on a blank canvas. Painting has become a ritual of exorcism. My brushes attack the canvas, splattering chaotic strokes as if fighting off inner demons. The act of creation is the only way I know to stave off the black ink threatening to engulf me.

I wear the mask of the perfect son, brother, and friend—living up to the King family name. Yet, every time I look in the mirror, I see only a defective version of what’s expected. My twin Landon’s offhand jibe about “spare parts” still stings, a reminder of my perceived adequacy.

My studio has become my sanctuary and prison. As I paint, hiding my true self behind these chaotic images. I curse under my breath because I know someone is in the studio. "Not right now. This is a private studio for a reason." I mutter through clenched teeth.