Gemotions

The scent of oil paint, once a source of comfort, now felt like a taunt. Amelia stared at her son, Max, who was copying her painting style, taking all her materials. Her studio, her sanctuary, her canvas to express, was no longer hers. He was mimicking her strokes, her color palettes, every single move, and it was driving her mad.

“Max, please stop.” The words felt inadequate, hollow, like a whisper lost in a hurricane. She could feel the pulse in her temple.

Max didn't even turn around. "But Mom, I'm almost as good as you are!"

Amelia felt a surge of something she couldn't name, a burning in her chest. She wanted to smash everything.