Gemotions

The vibrant colors of her paintings, her bold strokes, seemed to glare back at Eliza from the crowded cafe walls. Her name wasn't there, just the work. A familiar sense of softness settled within her, a feeling of being almost transparent. The noise of the place, the clatter of the plates, the cheerful chatter, seemed to bypass her entirely.

She watched a couple, admiring her piece. They talked about technique, the "vision" of the artist. The world flowed past her, a gentle current. She was a silent observer, a shadow in the corner. Her body felt light, as if it could be carried away by the slightest breeze.

She ordered a coffee, the warmth of the mug a comforting pressure in her hands. The brew was good, the moment quiet. It was enough.