A Blank Canvas

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Y/n stuffed himself into a corner of his room, curled into a little ball. He felt an emptiness that reminded him that Shikimori wasn't his. The Shikimori he loved was an image in his head and nothing else. Or maybe this was the only way he could accept the situation. If he accepted that he did love Shikimori he would also have to accept that he never told her.

"How am I supposed to deal with this..." Y/n groaned.

He was very close to tearing up. It was the easy thing to do. "Shikimori... to be honest..." Y/n tried to pour himself out. "I never liked to draw. To think of a new idea... and then try to adjust every stroke to perfection... and then repeat... I didn't like it... I was just good at it. But you appreciated Shikimori! Your eyes shined when you saw my sketchbook! You loved them! So I continued... to impress you..."

His eyes began to burn. 

"But there was no point! I wanted you to like me, but you already like Izumi... so there's no point... there's no point at all. An artist is just a piece of **** without viewers to see their work... just a piece of ****. I'm just a piece of **** without your approval!"

The walls listened to Y/n's cries without responding. They closed around him and watched silently. 

Y/n was only a boy. A boy with a broken heart.

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