Gemotions

A bead of sweat trickled down Elara’s temple, blurring the already shaky image on her phone. It was *her* painting, undeniably. That swirl of crimson, the way the light hit the leaves, the almost imperceptible tremor in the lines – all hers. And there, inked onto a stranger’s forearm, for all the world to see. She felt a sudden need for air, fumbling for the window.

Her breath hitched. The tattoo artist had even captured the grain of the canvas, the texture she’d spent weeks perfecting. She wanted to scream, to lash out. What right did this person have?

Elara found herself pacing her small studio, the floorboards creaking under her hurried steps. The image of that tattooed arm, a permanent fixture, a public claim on her private work, clawed at her insides. It felt… violated.