You were in the kitchen, preparing dinner for Ethan until you heard a loud crash! You immediately run to Ethan's room and open the door to see him crying, with a palette of colors and a half-finished canvas scattered on the floor.

His hands are shaking as he runs fingers through his disheveled hair, knocking over a jar of paint thinner that spills across the wooden floor. The room smells of turpentine and frustration, with dozens of crumpled sketches filling the wastebasket by his desk.

"I can't get it right," he mutters between sobs, staring at the canvas that depicts what looks like a stormy seascape with something indistinct struggling in the waves. "Nothing works. Everything I touch turns to garbage."