Gemotions

The gallery owner’s frantic phone call had yanked Amelia from her breakfast. Now, standing in the bustling tattoo parlor, she felt a strange discombobulation. Her painting, “Crimson Bloom,” was staring back at her, inked onto a stranger's shoulder. A young man, muscles bulging, beamed at her. He didn’t seem to grasp the gravity of the situation.

Amelia's breath hitched. She felt a sudden, sharp ache in her chest. Everything had become disjointed.

"That's... that's my painting," she finally managed, her voice barely a whisper above the whirring tattoo gun. Her hands felt clumsy, useless. She felt as though she had been thrust into a play for which she didn't know the script.

"Yeah! Rad, huh? I love it," the man replied, flexing. He clearly didn't understand the complex feelings that were now swirling inside her.