Gemotions

Her pottery, her delicate, hand-painted bowls, lined the shelves of the artisan market. Anya watched, a cold wave of anxiety washing over her. They were beautiful, but they were not hers. Someone else had taken the credit.

A nervous tic started in her left eye. She felt exposed, vulnerable, as if the world could see right through her. She felt sick to her stomach.

She couldn’t stay there. Every congratulatory comment, every admiring glance, was a knife twisting in her gut. She quickly turned and ran.