Gemotions

Rain lashed against the gallery window, mirroring the tempest within Elias. He leaned against the cool glass, arms crossed, staring at the blurred cityscape. Another opening night, another forced smile plastered across his face. He hated the art world's performative pleasantries. He’d poured his soul into these canvases, bled colour onto linen, and for what? To be reduced to polite conversation and lukewarm wine? Then he saw *him*. Across the room, a man with a familiar shape on his forearm, a crimson rendition of the ‘Withered Rose’ he'd spent six months painting. His stomach dropped.

Elias excused himself, navigating the chattering crowd like a swimmer through treacle. The man was laughing, gesturing animatedly. Elias’s hands clenched into fists, the nails digging into his palms. He felt a surge of heat, a flush rising in his neck. He needed air. He needed to *know*. He approached the man, his voice tight. "Excuse me... I couldn't help but notice... your tattoo."