Gemotions

My fingers itched to touch the velvet rope. The gallery lighting was pristine, a stark contrast to the dust-covered studio where I’d slaved over the canvases. A knot of excitement churned in my stomach. *This is it,* I thought, my heart thrumming against my ribs. I had to see it. I had to know if they’d even hung my pieces correctly.

A young woman, clutching a clipboard, blocked my path. "Can I help you, sir?" she asked, her voice clipped. I swallowed hard. "Just…just browsing," I stammered, trying to sound casual. But my feet practically propelled me forward towards the back of the gallery, to the room where my unauthorized exhibition hung.

I caught my reflection in a polished plinth. My cheeks were flushed, and my breath hitched as I rounded the corner. There they were: *my* paintings.