Gemotions

The artist's studio, once a sanctuary of creativity, had become a prison. Canvases lay unfinished, brushes unwashed. The vibrant hues of his paints seemed to mock him, the promise of self-expression replaced by an overwhelming sense of futility. He felt a constant, crushing weight on his shoulders.

A rare medical conference had been the only event on his calendar, and he reluctantly travelled to it. He was sitting at a table in the lobby, staring blankly when a woman sat opposite him. She was picking at the skin of her hands, her movements jerky and anxious.

"Is this your first time?" she asked quietly. "I've been on this medication for a week now." He nodded, the unspoken bond of shared suffering passing between them.