Gemotions

The gallery owner, Mr. Henderson, was all smiles. "Magnificent! Simply magnificent," he boomed, gesturing at the back of a woman's neck, where the stylized hummingbird from her "Flight" series was permanently etched. Alex, the artist, felt a sudden coldness seep into her bones. Her fingers fidgeted, picking at a loose thread on her dress.

She usually hated social situations like this, but she never truly felt safe alone. "Thank you," she managed to mumble, her voice barely audible over the music. Mr. Henderson's praise was warm; his validation crucial.

Later, as the crowd thinned, she found herself lingering, watching the woman chat with someone else. A sudden, sharp pang of insecurity gnawed at her. She felt a desperate need to know what the woman thought, to ensure she approved. She had to know she wasn’t angry.

She followed the woman outside, the cold air stinging her cheeks. “Excuse me,” she began, her voice barely a whisper. “I… I was the artist.” She needed to know she hadn’t ruined anything.