Gemotions

The art gallery, usually a source of inspiration, now felt like a scene from a bad dream. The carefully curated exhibits, the hushed whispers of the other patrons, the man's overly enthusiastic commentary – all of it was grating. The words, the descriptions, the opinions – they were identical to those uttered by another person, just last Friday night.

She started to feel a prickling sensation on her skin, as if every pore was repelling something. She felt a desperate urge to get away, to disappear.

“I’m not feeling well,” she managed to say. Her voice was barely audible above the low hum of the crowd. She turned and walked towards the exit, ignoring the man's confused expression.