Gemotions

The smell of paint and turpentine hung heavy in the air. Her mother, a renowned landscape artist, had filled their home studio with canvases and brushes. Now, the space felt like a prison to sixteen-year-old Willow. She had been "encouraged" to join the art classes, to learn the techniques, to follow in her mother’s footsteps. Today, however, she refused.

"Willow, honey, can you please pass me the Prussian blue?" Her mother’s voice was warm, but the underlying expectation was clear.

Willow crossed her arms. Her back stiffened. She walked over to the open window. The sky was a vibrant cerulean, a color her mother would meticulously mix, attempting to capture it on the canvas. Instead of helping her, she reached for her phone. She would rather be anywhere but here, stuck in a world saturated with the same shades and hues.

"Willow?" Her mother's tone shifted, there was a question in it now. Willow only stared out the window, a silent, pointed act of avoidance. She was going to be late for her date.