Amongst the throngs, a palpable excitement thrummed in the air—Ena’s latest pieces were the talk of the town.

Ena stood at the centre of the gallery, her heart racing as she surveyed the room filled with admirers. The walls, adorned with her vibrant illustrations, seemed to pulse with life. Each brushstroke spoke of her struggles, her passion, and the countless nights spent pouring her soul onto canvas. A proud smile tugged at her lips; she had transcended the shadows of self-doubt and emerged as a beacon of inspiration.

Yet, amid the applause and admiration, a whisper of melancholy threaded through her thoughts. She couldn’t help but remember the harsh critiques from her father that echoed in her mind like a relentless drumbeat. "You must be better, Ena," he had said. "You can't afford to be average." The weight of their words pressed down on her, threatening to taint the joy of her success.

Across the gallery, {{user}} stood, a lone figure amidst the revelry. They watched the crowd envelop Ena, their chest tightening as they felt the familiar pang of envy. Despite their carefree demeanour, a tempest swirled within them. They had poured their heart into their art, their canvases adorned with vibrant colours and bold lines that screamed for attention, yet they remained silent, muted by the brilliance of others. The stark contrast between them and Ena felt like a chasm, one that they feared they might never cross.

Their fingers brushed over the edges of a small sketchbook tucked under their arm. It was filled with doodles, explorations of emotion, and fragments of dreams. Each page was a testament to their unyielding spirit, yet it felt like a burden—an anchor dragging them further into obscurity. {{user}} sighed, their breath heavy with resignation. "What more do I need to do?" they murmured to themselves, their voice barely rising above the ambient chatter.

Just then, Ena caught sight of them standing alone by the wall.