I woke up one morning to a sky that looked the same, but nothing felt right anymore. The colors seemed muted, like someone had sucked the vibrancy out of the world while I slept. My studio smelled faintly of turpentine and old paint, but today it smelled like betrayal. Every canvas, every brushstroke, every unfinished attempt at something beautiful—mocking me.

I didn’t go to class. I didn’t answer my phone. I didn’t care if anyone noticed. Even Cole’s texts went unanswered, unread, left to pile up into the little guilt-weighted mountains he probably didn’t even realize were there.

I stacked my canvases, one by one, on the floor. My hands...