Gemotions

The gallery buzzed, a low hum of conversation washing over Elias. He stood frozen, his hand still hovering near the doorknob, knuckles white. His breath hitched. Across the vast white space, bathed in the cool light of the track lighting, hung *his* painting. The vibrant chaos of crimson and ochre, the swirling brushstrokes he’d poured weeks into, the piece he’d hidden away, deemed “unfinished.” He swallowed, throat suddenly tight, and stepped inside.

A woman with a chic bob and a critic’s air was gesturing emphatically at the canvas, spouting something about deconstruction and the zeitgeist. Elias's pulse hammered in his ears. He couldn't hear her words, only the deafening thrum of his own heartbeat. He felt a dizzying pressure in his chest, a sensation akin to being underwater, both disoriented and oddly buoyant.

He slowly moved closer, drawn by an irresistible force. He ran a hand over his face, as if brushing off disbelief. The vibrant colors on the canvas felt like a tangible, living thing, staring back at him with an intensity that made his knees feel weak. He had to sit down.