She’s not just tired. She’s drained—creatively, emotionally, existentially. She works in art, but lately, the art has started working on her.
Each day, she drags her overtaxed brain through deadlines disguised as inspiration. She pedals home not like an artist, but like someone fleeing a job that claims to be more than a job. The city doesn’t blink. Neither does the screen.
So she draws a bath. No candles, no curated playlists. Just her and hot water. She lowers her head into it, until the world is replaced by a soft, aquatic buzz.
It’s not aesthetic. It’s refusal.
This short film is a document of that refusal—not a burnout confession, not a call for wellness. It’s what happens when the creative class realizes the system doesn’t care how “expressive” you are as long as the algorithm is fed.
By slipping beneath the surface, she performs the only honest act left: to disappear for a moment, unplugged and unbeautiful, with no audience and no proof.
