Sakura walked over, leaning over Ena’s shoulder. "It’s not the anatomy. It’s the spirit. You’re drawing what you think people want to see, not what you actually feel." Sakura reached out, her hand glowing with a soft, green light—the color of healing chakra . She didn't touch the tablet; instead, she placed a hand on Ena’s shoulder.
The vision faded. Ena looked at her blank canvas, then at Sakura, who was starting to shimmer at the edges.
"Who are you?" Ena demanded, her voice sharp with a mix of fear and annoyance. ena sakura
"No," Sakura smiled, a look of genuine recognition in her eyes. "But you have a brush. And that can be just as powerful if you stop fighting yourself."
Ena jumped, nearly dropping her stylus. Sitting on the edge of her bed was a girl who looked like she’d stepped out of a different world. She wore a crimson tactical tunic and had hair the exact shade of the cherry blossoms Ena sometimes tried—and failed—to paint. Sakura walked over, leaning over Ena’s shoulder
Ena scoffed, turning back to her tablet. "Unless you can fix this anatomy, I don't see how you can help."
As Sakura disappeared into a swirl of pink petals, Ena picked up her stylus. She didn't go back to the "perfect" sketch. Instead, she opened a new layer and began to draw with a ferocity she hadn't felt in months. The lines were jagged, the colors were clashing, and for the first time, Ena didn't care if anyone liked it. She was finally painting the truth. You’re drawing what you think people want to
For a moment, the room seemed to dissolve. Ena didn't see the messy walls of her bedroom anymore. She saw a vast, empty space w