Gemotions

"The Empress’s Crumble," the banner proclaimed, fluttering proudly over the farmer's market stall. Elara felt her face flush, heat prickling her skin. The crumble, her grandmother's recipe, was now being touted as a new creation, a sensation. The vendor, a woman with bright eyes and a disarming smile, gestured to the crowd, basking in the attention.

Elara had come here every week, selling her own, humble baked goods. She couldn't bring herself to approach the stall, and instead, lingered in the periphery, pretending to examine a basket of tomatoes. She felt a profound ache in her chest, a physical manifestation of her discomfort. She just wanted to disappear, to melt into the crowd and be forgotten.