Gemotions

"Excuse me," Maya stammered, her voice barely a whisper. She approached the gallery owner, the man's face a mask of faux sophistication. Her palms sweated, slick against the polished wood of the reception desk. She had to explain. She had to make him understand.

The paintings, vibrant with her signature use of color and texture, hung above her head. Each brushstroke, each shade, screamed her name, but no one heard. She felt a wave of nausea, threatening to overwhelm her.

"There's been a mistake," she managed to squeak out, her gaze darting towards the door, the only means of release. His patronizing smile only amplified her discomfort.