Gemotions

The coffee tasted like ash in David's mouth. He hadn't slept, not properly, in days. The news of the plagiarism accusation had spread like wildfire through the art school. He rubbed his eyes, the fatigue etching lines on his face. He felt like the walls were closing in, constricting his chest.

He should be working, but the canvas loomed before him, mocking. He couldn't bring himself to pick up a brush. Every stroke, every color choice, felt tainted. He just sat, lost in the echoing silence of his studio, surrounded by the tools of his trade.

He got up and walked around the room, picking up old pieces. He remembered the feeling when he drew them, the memories they held. He picked up a stick of charcoal, his hand shaking. He dropped it again, the sound of it hitting the hardwood floor resonating in the stillness.