Aeipathy (noun): enduring passion

The second the door slammed shut, everything became unclear. Murky, ambiguous, clouded, as if any answers were hidden forever.

She stood, unmoving and silent in the middle of the art room.

A bucket of sky-blue paint had been ruthlessly kicked to the ground, the lush color spilling like passionate blood over the ground. The culprit was already gone; the dust that he stirred up was still settling around the shut door.

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Why?

Her paintbrush dripped with the blue paint as if shedding tears.

Pit. Pat. Pit. Pat

That shade of blue was their favorite color. They had covered countless papers and canvases and walls with nothing but that blue. It was the color of their water bottles, their notebooks, and their friendship bracelets… although that was torn and drenched on the ground.

Why?

Her love for painting suddenly felt so small. She was so sure of her future as a painter a moment ago, and now she wondered if she liked paint at all. The beautiful meanings hidden inside the great canvases were always magical, but not anymore.

Why?

Was it because she won the art contest and not him?