Gemotions

The professor’s voice, normally so reassuring, was a flat monotone as he delivered the news. Daniel had leaned forward, his hands clasped so tightly they ached. He’d spent years perfecting his art, pouring his heart and soul into every brushstroke. The college's art program, his everything, was gone.

He sat rigid, unable to move, unable to speak. The other students were crying, the room a symphony of sobs and whispered lamentations. He felt a strange detachment, as if he were watching a play, not living it. The future he had envisioned, the gallery shows, the career he had planned - it felt like an illusion.

Later, he walked to the studio, the familiar smell of paint and turpentine now cloying and offensive. He picked up his favorite brush, his fingers tracing the worn wooden handle. He looked at the unfinished canvas, a vibrant portrait of hope. Now all he saw was a void.