Blank Canvas

In one of the rooms of the institute, there was a quiet studio, devoid of any life except for the faint touch of a brush against a nearly empty palette. Aoi stared at the blank canvas before her. A faint sunlight seeped through the window, dust motes being the only witnesses of this soliloquy. Even though deemed pointless, she once again took hold of the brush in front of her.

The air faintly smelled of paint and old wood, a mixture that should've felt comforting a long time ago, but that nowadays only served as a reminder of hours lost to nothing. The floor beneath her feet creaked as if mocking her frustrations, each groan calling out her inadequacy. Even the faint noises of the city seemed irrelevant, as though the world had forgotten she existed.

Colors sat scattered on her palette, muted blues, washed-out grays, a faint smear of pink she hadn’t touched in days. Nothing seemed to hold. Every stroke she tried dissolved into frustration.

Her mind wandered. Every day felt like a constant cycle of trying and failing, of searching for meaning in lines and shades that refused to stay. Painting was supposed to be her escape, but lately, it had become another mirror of the emptiness she carried, her strokes lacking any emotion.. hollow.

“Ugh, it's no good.. I'm not getting anywhere today either...”

Ugly, pointless, stupid, devoid of any passion. That's all she could muster in her mind while looking at her canvas, why was it that the colors she used to see with so much glimmer, are nothing but  pale now..?

“It’s… it’s all worthless,” she let out in a quiet sigh. 

The colors slid across the surface of the canvas, pale blues, tones of gray, a smear of pink, and still they all looked like the same tainted gray to her, emptiness pressing down her chest. The canvas didn’t speak to her. It was just blank space with paint dragged across it. And, what about her? What was she supposed to even be?

She leaned back in her chair, letting the brush fall, her bangs falling over her eyes, while the brush was leaving faint remains of paint on the floor, she could feel the tears coming from behind her eyes, but she wouldn't let them fall, after all, they wouldn't change anything, not this constant failure, nor her inability to feel anything at all.

Her fingers the edge of the canvas, forming a faint streak of blue onto the wooden frame. The colors resisted her, shapes she couldn't recognize being formed, an invisible rhythm she couldn't follow seemingly emerging, a melody in the shape of pigment that her ears wouldn't hear.

Her fingernails clung onto her thighs, gripping as if that would make her headache lighter. She pressed her forehead forward, the weight of her own body dragging down with it.

Deep down, Aoi recalled how colors used to make her heart race, how exciting it was to use a brush to translate her emotions onto canvas, how each stroke spoke in a language she would only understand, how peaceful it was to express herself with each brush, how calm it was to have lines flow the way she wanted them to, how satisfying it was to have her work recognized, and how satisfied she felt when she finished a piece. A tiny part of her still yearned for that feeling, like a muscle that aches to move again after being dormant for too long, but she had lost it, swallowed by pure gray. Perhaps somewhere inside of her, the colors still waited patiently, for her to see them again.

Shamfully picking up the brush where it had fallen on the ground, a weight almost too heavy to lift, with feeble, penitent strokes, she continued to paint on the canvas with it, watching it traverse across, for something to fall in place this once, for her to return to how things used to be, maybe it's not all over yet, maybe there's still hope even for her, for an instant, she deceived herself that this was the case.

But this fleeting sensation quickly disappeared, her strokes faltered, hesitant once again, her vision grew blurry, the colors seemed to fade away, leaving her with nothing but the same grayness she had been feeling for a long time, her heart aching. She let the brush fall to the table, staring at the canvas that might have been beautiful if only she could see it.

Her mind wavered with the heavy certainty that nothing would ever change. The colors, the shapes.. everything was meaningless. She pressed her forehead to the table, letting her agony swallow her. Angrily tracing a red line over the painting in frustration. The canvas waited patiently to be noticed, holding a newborn life she could not perceive, a proof of existence she could not acknowledge.

Outside, the wind whispered against the window, and the movement of leaves reminded her that the world went on, indifferent to her. In this stillness, a small patch of sunlight struck the corner of the canvas, illuminating an unnoticed smear of pink that hadn't been noticed beforehand. Aoi pressed her lips together, a bitter chuckle escaping from her, as if the universe was mocking her.

Even if the world is always close to gray, the studio held a stubborn refusal to let her give up. Having a quiet place where her colors could bleed.. maybe that would be enough.

Aoi, exhausted and empty, closed her eyes, convinced she had failed again, leaving her small, unnoticed world of color behind, untouched and unseen. She slowly rose from her stool and quietly left the room, leaving her studio cold and silent, with a beauty that couldn't yet be seen, being displayed in the middle of the room, for no one's eyes to witness.

A few moments later, footsteps echoed softly in the hall. As if the half-closed door had called to her, another figure stepped into the studio, her gaze immediately drawn to the canvas still wet with color. She stopped, breath caught in her throat.
“This is…” she whispered. “…Beautiful.”