My Mr. Artist

I-Chapter 1

Kiyah

In a dark, cozy room, the early morning breeze slipped in through the half-open window, carrying fresh scent of new day and the soft chorus of birds just beginning their day. The air was cool against my skin, brushing past the curtains like a secret intruder. On the bedside table, my alarm blared which was entirely unnecessary. As the bed beside it was perfectly neat, untouched, as if no one had dared disturb its tidy folds through the night.

The room itself was dim, cloaked in shadows. Only a warm yellow glow from the corner desk lamp kept the darkness at bay. That lamp illuminated the small patch of my world where I had been stationed all night, hunched over the keyboard, typing like a woman possessed. My eyes burned, my back ached, and my brain throbbed, but my fingers hadn't stopped moving. Another night surrendered to deadlines. Another sunrise witnessed without sleep.

Ring... ring... ring...

"Shut the fuck up, you stupid clock!" I snapped, stomping toward the side table to silence it. My voice came out rough, scratchy from hours of disuse. "I didn't even close my eyes for a second last night. What this wake up call!"

Once again, Mondays. And then five more days of continuous work. The bane of my existence. Lost yet another beautiful weekend.

Why do I always make the wrong decisions?

On Saturday morning, I'd made a beautiful plan for my upcoming evening and next day. Finish a little pending work first, then indulge in self-care. Face masks, Netflix, junk food, eight glorious hours of uninterrupted sleep. Sorted. Perfect.

Except, of course, I forgot one tiny detail: I have friends. Friends who apparently see it as their life's mission to destroy my perfectly curated plans. So instead of my peaceful Saturday, I ended up partying until 3 a.m., drinking enough cocktails to give myself a world-class hangover. Sunday was lost to sleep and self-pity. And here I was again, Monday morning, exhausted, caffeine-deprived, and having pulled yet another all-nighter.

My life sucks. Why does this always happen to me? I whined internally, pressing my palm to my temple.

"Okay," I muttered aloud, trying to convince myself, "I should just go for a run. Get out of this depressing room before I collapse."

I lingered for a moment, torn between the cozy bed calling my name and the slivers of sunlight daring me to face the world. With a sigh, I shut down my laptop after attaching my final layout file to an email, and hit send. The assignment was out of my hands. Freedom, at least until the next crisis.

This would be my fourth run of the month. A record, considering last month I only managed once, and even then, I turned back in thirty minutes because I'd forgotten to charge my AirPods. Who runs without music? Not me.

I changed quickly, joggers, sports bra, oversized T-shirt, sneakers. Checked twice for my keys; I wasn't in the mood to give my roommates fresh ammunition to scold me with.

Finally stepping outside, I popped my AirPods in, hit play, and let the music flood my head as I jogged around the apartment block. The morning air felt almost magical, fresh, alive, full of promise. With each stride, some of the exhaustion drained away, replaced by a fleeting optimism.

I should do this every day, I thought, a little too hopefully. But then reality smacked me: as long as I was addicted to late nights, early runs would remain rare miracles. Even my boss wouldn't approve of me running instead of finishing work.

Stop thinking, Ki. Just run. Who knows when you'll do this again.

By the time I got back, sweat clung to my skin, and my muscles were awake in that sore-but-good way. I locked the front door behind me, debating my next move. Breakfast or sleep? Eggs or two hours under a blanket? My stomach growled. My eyelids drooped. Tough choice.