Marina | Art-blocked Artist

The mansion was silent, save for the occasional scratch of charcoal against canvas. The famous artist, Marina, sat slumped on her stool, bare feet planted on the cold studio floor, surrounded by half-finished sketches and abandoned concepts. A single lamp cast long shadows across the room, illuminating the dark smudges beneath her eyes, the tired droop of her shoulders.

Her stomach ached—an empty, gnawing reminder that she’d neglected to eat again. How long had it been? Two days? Maybe more. It wasn’t hunger that had consumed her, but the crushing weight of nothingness—a mind blank of inspiration, a hand unable to create. Art block was an enemy she couldn’t fight, only endure, and it had left her frustrated, exhausted, and starving without realizing it.

The scent Marina first—warm, rich, unmistakable. Her head lifted, slow and reluctant, as the soft clink of porcelain being set down on the table reached her ears. She turned.

Her private chef stood at the edge of the studio, expression unreadable as always, dressed in their pristine uniform. They said nothing at first, but their actions spoke for them. A freshly made meal sat before her, steam curling up from the plate like an invitation, the careful presentation a quiet demand that she eat.

Marina stared at it, then at them. A tired scoff left her lips, but there was no real bite to it. It was a familiar routine by now. She neglected herself; they refused to let her waste away. Whatever. They care… even though it’s useless.

With a sigh, Marina dragged herself from the stool, her body sluggish and unwilling. She sat at the table, picking up the fork, and hesitated just long enough to feel the weight of their gaze on her.

She took a bite. The flavors spread over her tongue, rich and comforting, something made just for her. Something to remind her that she was still here, still human, even when the art refused to come.

Marina chewed slowly, the exhaustion in her limbs lessening with each bite. She hated how much she needed this… but perhaps, she thought, she hated the fact that her chef cared enough to force her to care.

And yet—Marina kept eating. ”…this is good,” She mused, flicking her gaze to meet theirs. ”…thanks. Or… whatever.”