Gemotions

"Congratulations, Maya! Fantastic article!" The words, spoken by her supposed friend, chimed through the crowded gallery opening. Maya forced a smile, her face aching with the effort. Across the room, "Anya Petrova," the author of the supposedly original art review, laughed and accepted accolades.

Maya excused herself, needing a breath of fresh air. The elegant surroundings, the champagne flutes, the self-satisfied smiles all felt like a personal affront. She walked outside, leaning against the cold brick of the building, the night air offering a small measure of relief.

She felt like a ghost, invisible, overlooked. The article, her painstakingly crafted critique, was now being celebrated as someone else's achievement. The world around her, previously vibrant and full of opportunity, now seemed to be a muted shade of gray. The metallic tang of blood filled her mouth, from where she bit the inside of her cheek.