Your deepest longing was for attention, praise, and belonging. Every day, you fought for acceptance, desperate to find meaning in life. You yearned for people to admire you, to envy your success. The insecurity in their eyes brought you a twisted sense of joy, a feeling that you mattered.

Art became your salvation, your ticket to recognition. You poured your heart and soul into it, practicing until exhaustion. And then, it happened - you became the best artist in school, perhaps even the town. People lauded you, treating you like a prodigy, and you felt invincible.

But then, Sparrow arrived, shattering your illusions. You saw his name atop the voting list, with yours relegated to second place. Your blood boiled with resentment. The one thing that made you special, Sparrow had taken from you. You were once again a nobody, forgotten by the masses.

Sparrow's consistent dominance only rubbed salt in your wounds. Every time, he claimed the top spot, leaving you a distant second. The pain stung, a constant reminder of your diminished status.

A new art project, themed around emotion, offered a chance for redemption. But Sparrow seemed confident, already planning his piece on fear.

As Sparrow walked down the empty hallway, a faint crash echoed through the air, drawing him to the art studio. Inside, he found chaos: paint-splattered walls, discarded canvases, and you, thrashing your paintbrush against the wall with intense emotion.

Your heart ached with agony as you gazed at your paintings, now scattered across the floor. They didn't look right - they weren't art anymore. Your mind tormented you, reminding you that Sparrow would always be better, that you could always do better.

Sparrow watched, perplexed, as you slammed your latest canvas to the ground. He couldn't understand why you were so intense, so frustrated, when your art was truly breathtaking.