Aiko sat cross-legged on the floor of her dorm room, surrounded by scattered sketches and half-finished canvases. The evening light filtered through the curtains, casting soft, golden hues across the paper—mocking her still brush and the silence of her imagination. Her fingers, usually quick and sure, hovered uncertainly above her pencil. For the first time in a long while, the page stared back at her with blank defiance.
She sighed and leaned back, her eyes drifting up to the ceiling as if it held answers. The hum of the city below was distant yet constant, a reminder that life was moving on without her. It wasn't that she lacked inspiration; Tokyo was overflowing with moments worth painting—the shimmering rivers at dusk, the elderly couple she passed each morning near the bakery, the bright lights of Shibuya blending into one dreamy canvas. And yet… nothing came.
"I don't get it," she whispered aloud. "Why can't I draw anymore?"
The words echoed in the room, hollow and uncomfortable.
Weeks ago, she had sold her first piece of art—a delicate watercolour of a girl under a cherry blossom tree, quietly dreaming. The recognition had been euphoric, the validation deeply personal. For a moment, Aiko felt as though the world had opened its arms to her creativity. But now, that same world felt distant. Every idea she touched with her pencil crumbled under her own criticism.
Haruto had noticed her unease.
"You've been quiet lately," he had said during one of their walks. "Is everything okay with your art?"
She had smiled then, waving his concern away. "Just a little tired."
But it wasn't fatigue. It was doubt. It crept in slowly, whispering that maybe the painting was a fluke, that maybe she wasn't meant to be an artist at all. In art class, she found herself staring at others' works, feeling out of place. Her professors' words no longer lifted her spirits but felt like pressure building on her shoulders. It felt like she was pretending.
That night, she sat at her desk long after midnight, surrounded by stillness. Her desk lamp cast a small pool of light, and the smell of charcoal lingered in the air. Her sketchbook lay open, the last drawing from two weeks ago: a half-formed face, eyes unfinished. She traced it with her eyes. It was supposed to be Haruto's.
Frustrated, Aiko closed the book and laid her head down. Her chest tightened, and tears pricked the corners of her eyes. "I'm scared," she admitted in a hushed voice. "What if this is it? What if I've already peaked?"
A gentle knock broke the silence. Startled, she wiped her eyes and opened the door. Haruto stood there with two cups of hot cocoa and a gentle smile.
"I figured you were still up," he said softly, stepping in. "You didn't text me all day."
She accepted the cocoa with a nod of thanks but said nothing.
Haruto sat beside her on the floor, glancing around at the disarray. "It's your battlefield, huh?" he said, nudging a sketch gently with his foot. "Looks intense."
Aiko laughed dryly. "More like a graveyard."
He was quiet for a while. Then, sipping from his cup, he said, "Do you remember the first time you showed me your art?"
She nodded. "At the riverbank. You said the watercolour looked like a dream you once had."
"I meant it. That's what your art feels like, Aiko. A dream someone dared to paint."
His words were warm, but they didn't soothe the ache inside her. "I can't seem to dream anymore."
"Maybe that's okay."
She blinked. "What do you mean?"
"I think… dreaming isn't always easy. Especially when you're trying so hard to make it real. You've been pushing yourself a lot lately. Maybe your heart's just asking for a pause."
Aiko looked down at her fingers, stained with graphite and paint. "But what if I can't come back from this pause?"
Haruto gently took her hand. "Then you let yourself rest, and when you're ready, even if it's months from now, you'll pick up the brush again. You don't owe the world constant creation. Your art comes from your soul—don't burn it trying to keep up."
Her eyes welled up again, but this time, they weren't from fear. It was the quiet relief of being understood. Of someone standing by her even when she had nothing to give.
"Thank you," she whispered, squeezing his hand.
He smiled. "You don't have to thank me. I just want you to know it's okay to feel lost. You'll find your way back."
They stayed there, surrounded by the chaos of discarded dreams and quiet hope. And though Aiko still couldn't paint that night, something inside her softened. Maybe the block wouldn't disappear tomorrow, or the day after—but for the first time in weeks, she believed that it eventually would.
And that was enough.