Gemotions

The world seemed to have lost its color. Each sunrise was a muted affair, each passing day blending into the next. She’d stopped going outside, preferring the dim, shadowy interior of her studio. Inspiration had become a distant memory. The canvas sat untouched, a stark white void mirroring the emptiness she felt within.

He saw it on the street, the man with his work. It was “Fractured Sky,” the one she’d painted during a particularly tumultuous period of her life. The tattoo was large, covering a significant portion of his arm. It made her stomach churn.

Her hands started to tremble. It felt like someone had taken a piece of her, not in a good way. The thought of someone owning a part of her soul, even a piece of her creative expression, felt incredibly intrusive. It felt so wrong.