"I can never put into paper how beautiful you are."

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Jongup can’t recall as to why he’s near to banging his forehead on the desk, a pencil on his right hand and a blank paper lying on the wooden surface. He puffs his cheeks as an attempt to comprehend his frustration, and he soon heaved out a heavy breath. Why was sketching so difficult for him? He can’t even explain as to why his hands can’t manage to glide the lead onto the blank expanse of the paper taunting him. The young man haphazardly banged the pencil on the table and threaded his slender fingers onto his hair, nearly pulling at them.

When did this all start?