Red streaks on my forehead, nothing on my canvas

---

Angel could feel it. Whatever she was creating now wasn't a painting—it was raw emotion splashed across the canvas. With bold, forceful strokes, she layered one smear after another. A bead of sweat rolled down her forehead, and she wiped it away with her sleeve, leaving behind a streak of red across her skin.

The pain of those first months with GRACE was gone. The sleepless nights. The memories. GRACE had turned out to be nothing more than yet another social network. A beauty pageant inside your own mind. Nothing more than the kind of shallow judgment an average group of teenagers could dish out without needing an implant.

Of course, Theresa's world was still falling apart every single day. By now, she'd shared well over a hundred theories with Mary and her. As Angel's thoughts drifted between her friends and her art, a sharp stab of pain shot through her arm. She'd been attacking the canvas so aggressively that the cramp yanked her straight back into the present.

She stared at the canvas in disbelief. It was complete nonsense. Nothing. She had nothing left.

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