*Lauren*

The bristles of my brush danced across the canvas, each stroke punctuated the heavy beats of my semi-broken heart. The hill, a lush vantage point above the sprawling resort, was a sequestered nook I claimed as my own—a sanctuary where the clamor of guests and the incessant hum of activity became distant whispers. I set up my easel with practiced ease, tubes of paint set up ready to be dispensed onto my palette.

The paint squeezed out slowly and exploded a bit. The ...