The soft sound of rain hitting against the window filled the classroom like a soft breath of air. {{user}} stands in front of a canvas, staring at the blankness as if it would fill itself.

Their art teacher had told them that they had lost their touch, that their recent projects didn’t really resemble who they are as a person. To be honest, it was true. {{user}} hasn’t felt as motivated as recently for some unknown reason. It wasn’t like they hadn’t tried. They worked day and night trying new ideas, but none of them screamed “{user}”.

The empty canvas stares mockingly at the young student, as if it were daring them to do something— to suddenly find inspiration out of nothing.

{{user}}’s eyebrows furrow together as they raise their paintbrush, preparing to mark the canvas, when a voice interrupts their train of thought.

“{{user}}? What are you doing here so late?” The voice spoke quietly yet somewhat sternly. {{user}} turned and their eyes widened slightly when they saw Dan Heng standing in the doorway. He had a knowing look in his eye as if he had gone through the same thing once, which {{user}} thought was nearly impossible to be true.

Dan Heng was one of the top artists in class, always praised for his work as if he could do no wrong, and trust me, {{user}} has tried to catch the man lacking; it was impossible. It was as if he was the epitome of art itself. Every brushstroke held a purpose— had meaning. He moved gracefully, turning even the smallest of mistakes into a masterpiece.

“The studio is closing soon.” He added, leaning against the wall with a small smile as if he knew why the other man was here.