Gemotions

The gallery was a symphony of hushed tones and clinking champagne flutes, but Clara felt no joy. She stood, arms crossed, staring at the canvas that now felt alien. Years of meticulous brushstrokes, of emotional labor, reduced to a commonality.

Her rival's work, unveiled just moments ago, mirrored her vision, her style. It was a brutal imitation. The same palette, the same subject matter, the same subtle nuances she believed were unique to her.

Clara felt a dull throb behind her temples. The compliments from the well-wishers sounded hollow. She couldn't bring herself to respond, instead, just staring at the wall as if it might offer an explanation. The champagne felt like ashes in her mouth.