It was on a particularly tepid afternoon that the ball of strawberry ice cream, once vibrant and full of promise, began to understand the futility of its existence. Perched alone on a dish too vast and white to feel anything but accusatory, it sensed its edges softening, its form degrading—not with drama, but with the quiet horror of inevitability. The spoon had not come to sit by it. No one had chosen to eat it. It was not chocolate, not vanilla—just strawberry, the flavor of half-decisions and quiet refusals. Its pink flesh, once thought delightful, now felt garish in the sterile light of abandonment. There was no dignity in this slow melting. Only the realization that even sweetness, when left too long to think, begins diminish into despair.

Done in Procreate.