Gemotions

The gallery's pristine white walls seemed to close in on Clara. Sweat slicked her palms as she stared at *Untitled 3*, her charcoal sketch of a wilting sunflower. The gallery owner, a slick man named Mr. Abernathy, hadn't contacted her. Not a phone call, not an email – just *her* work, hanging where everyone could see it. She gnawed at her lip, a habit she'd thought she'd broken years ago, as the crowd murmured around the artwork.

She imagined the faces of the people, their critiques, their judgments. Her stomach twisted into knots. Each comment, each glance at *her* sunflower, felt like a direct punch to her gut. She’d poured her soul into that piece, a reflection of her inner feelings and now it was out there for all to see, and she felt completely exposed.

The knot in her stomach tightened further, a physical sensation that made it difficult to breathe. She wanted to yell, to scream, to run. But instead, she just stood frozen, unable to move, trapped in a silent nightmare. Her hand found its way to the back of her neck, gently rubbing the place where pain likes to settle.