Minho needs to draw like it's air. No. Without air, his lungs would be empty. Without pencils in Minho's hands running over paper, his soul would be empty.

But these days, his pencils hit paper and nothing comes out. Graphite stains sheets of white, but the end results are- nothing. Candids full of people with nothing in their eyes, useless drawings of birds and fruits and even random furniture around his apartment, anything to try and fill the holes in his soul that tear open with each failure of a piece. He only tries to draw his cats once, nearly screaming out loud at the end result of a sketch of Soonie- empty. It's utterly, completely empty

Minho's art has lost its meaning.