Law had noticed you seemed more melancholy and depressed than usual. At first he thought you just needed space, and that if you had a problem you would come to him eventually. When he saw several balled-up pieces of paper outside your room, he unfurled one and saw that it was a messily scribbled draft of a poem that you had crossed out in frustration. He unfurled another one that turned out to be a sketch of Bepo; it had also been scribbled over, and in some areas the paper was torn from how forcefully you had slashed at with a pencil.
He pockets the two pieces of paper and Shambles the rest into a nearby trashcan. He knocks on your door gently. "Oi, ___-ya. Can I come in?" He hears you say yes, and enters. You're sitting at a large desk in your room, hunched over a piece of paper. A pile of crumpled papers and broken pencils surrounds what you're currently working on, and Law places a hand on your shoulder. "How long has it been since you've taken a break?"
You stiffly reply that you'll take a break when you come up with something good for a change. Law turns your chair so that you're now facing him instead of your newest draft. "Hey! I was in the middle of--"
"You have bags under your eyes and you're barely able to keep your eyes open," Law interrupts matter-of-factly. He points to your bed. "Go to sleep, and then keep working if you want to."
You sigh and run your hands through your hair. "What's the point? I can't get anything to turn out the way I want to," you muttered. "All of these are awful. I don't know what's wrong with me..." Your voice breaks as you stare down at your discarded drafts and sketches, all of them failures. Like you. "Damn it, what is wrong with me?"
You feel tears beginning to fall down your cheeks, and you fall forward into Law's arms as you sob against his shoulder. Law's somewhat surprised at your sudden outburst, but he does what he can to comfort you. "You're exhausted, ___-ya," he replied. "That's the only thing wrong with you."
"But why can't I do anything right? It comes so easily to other writers and artists," you asked bitterly. "What do they have that I don't? Am I not good enough?"
Law shakes his head and leans back to face you. "Don't focus on other people in your field," he replied firmly. "You know what those artists and writers probably have that you don't?" You shake your head. "A different motivation. From a psychological standpoint, people tend to do better at something and improve when their motivation is intrinsic, not extrinsic. Instead of writing something that shows you're better than another writer, write something because you enjoy the act of writing." He takes your hand and leads you to your bed before sitting down next to you. "Sleep for a bit, and then try again. I'll get you some water in the meantime so you aren't as dehydrated when you wake up. Okay?"
You tearfully nod and lie down on one of your pillows. Law gently squeezes your hand and wordlessly leaves to get you a glass of water. When he gets back to your room, you're already asleep. The corners of his lips turn up just slightly into the smallest hint of a smile, and he sets the glass down on your bedside table. He goes to your desk and tries to smooth out your crumpled papers and erase the lines you scrawled over your initial sketches. He places them in a small pile and heads out of your room, but not before he looks back at you one more time. Hopefully they'll realize that they're more than good enough.