Gemotions

The gallery's pristine white walls seemed to press in on Leo. He tugged at his collar, the starched fabric suddenly feeling constricting. A knot formed in his stomach as he recognized *that* painting, the one he’d abandoned months ago. He’d never intended it to see the light of day, a clumsy exploration of his grief. Now, it hung, bathed in a spotlight, and strangers were appraising it. He felt the blood drain from his face. His breath hitched as he fought the urge to flee.

He drifted through the crowd, a ghost in his own life. The small talk and the compliments, he couldn't process them. Each person who paused before the painting felt like a judge, their gaze a piercing examination. He wanted to vanish, to rewind time to when he'd first considered scrapping the piece. He could feel his hands starting to shake.

He saw the gallery owner across the room. She was talking animatedly, waving her hands. The image of her talking, and selling his work made him feel a flush of heat. He began to sweat. He had to say something, but the words were stuck, trapped in his throat like a bitter pill. He squeezed his hands into fists to stop the trembling.