The long, slim canvas was raised overhead, skinny arms holding it aloft as if to bring it crashing to the floor in a fell swoop. His breath was heaving and the deep eyes were stinging with unshed tears. He seemed to be paused, a freeze frame or photograph in the middle of the small studio. Any second he would do it. He would crash the flimsy frame into the floor and destroy the thorn in his side. Any second now.

The seconds passed but the canvas did not break. Instead the floodgates holding back tears did. They poured over his lids, down his cheeks and even dripped to the floor with muted drops. He let the canvas come back down and it fell limp onto the floor, safe from danger and completely undamaged. The same could not be said for the artist. Ken slumped onto the floor beside it and heaved with sobs.

He couldn’t do it anymore. Nothing worked. All of his talent had been stolen and replaced with a ghost. He was wasting his time, his money, his life, pretending to be something he just wasn’t. Not anymore. He should give it up. He should listen to his family and friends, get a real job and move back to the city. He should give up his dreams. Let the flame in his heart finally sputter out and die. Join the masses living lives they had to rather than the ones they wanted.

He wiped the tears from his face and glanced at the spared canvas by his knees. There was something missing. Something he had been chasing out here in the mountains. Something that he had lost.

Tomorrow he would call his mother, tell her he was finally coming home. He would cancel his lease and pack up his things. He would call his best friend and admit he was wrong. It was time.

With a heavy sigh Ken struggled to his feet and stepped over the canvas. He padded out of the studio and into the darkened hall.

His phone was waiting by the door, like an obedient pet. A small flash seemed to be reminding him of all the people that were waiting for him to admit his failure. Ken snatched it up, wanting to hurl it through the window and give it to the forest. His finger grazed the button and the screen lit up. A text message from an unknown number instead of a new plea for him to come home.

The abyss of hopelessness yawning in his chest was bridged with curiosity as he clicked open the message.

Need inspiration. Might be onto something. Can I see the forest tomorrow?

Ken’s brows furrowed as he read the text again. Who in the world would send him that? It had to be a wrong number. But then, the forest was in there. His magic forest that fed inspiration and creativity.

He stood in front of the windows, eyes lost to the trees as his mind whirred with action. It took a few more minutes, fighting it’s way through his own dejection, to come to the front of his brain. Ravi?

Fingers flying he sent a reply. The timestamp said the original message had come in 2 hours ago.

Ravi? You’re always welcome. I’ll make sure I’m home tomorrow.

Ken nodded, content with that reply. Not desperate, no note of how hopeless his own work was lately. Just a nice, neutral reply. And an excuse to stay another day before giving up.

Ravi glared at the reply. It was such a bland response. He had expected something a little more welcoming, at least some pandering to his reputation and fame. This guy seriously irked him with his… his… what was it? Nonchalance? Indifference! The blatant indifference to Ravi, when he was clearly a superior artist. It grated on him. It left his heart feeling raw and exposed.

For a moment he considered cancelling. Telling Ken he had changed his mind and wasn’t coming, that would show him, teach him not to keep Ravi waiting two hours for a response. He knew, however, that Ken would be just as unconcerned about that as he was about Ravi coming. Then he would be left in the same place.

Since Hangover Thursday the sketch had haunted him, rising into his mind’s-eye unbidden at random times. It felt like a jeering taunt from his subconscious. A needling reminder of his unfinished business. Damn it.

The heat rolled around him, rippling off the bitumen and trying to sneak into the sleek car. Ravi crunched off the road and turned the engine off. Ken’s house, pleasantly waiting for him among the crazy grass, was just the same. He took a heavy breath, feeling the burn of the sun through the windshield. The entire trip had been an internal debate over whether to continue or turn back. Even now, as he reached for the car door handle and climbed out into the midday sun, he was still weighing up going home. As he reached up to knock on the warm-wood door he wanted to scurry back to the car and leave. The wait for Ken to open the door was agonising, more than a few times Ravi turned and made to step off the veranda, only stopping when he thought he heard footsteps on the other side of the door. When it finally swung inward it was to reveal Ken in an oversized shirt, paint smeared and rolled up to the elbows. The hem of his shorts barely peeking below the shirt and his exceptionally long legs on full display.

“Hi!” Ken bounced backwards to let Ravi in, smiling warmly.

“Uh,” Ravi wanted to slap himself. The correct response was ‘Hi’, ‘Hello’ or even possibly ‘What’s up?’. ‘Uh’ did not cut it.

“Sorry I took a while. I was in the studio. Come in.” Ken waved enthusiastically.

Ravi moved into the house, an electric nervousness in his body. He wasn’t sure what he was doing here anymore. What was his plan? To see the trees and find himself? That so