Gemotions

The university art show. Eleanor scanned the room, each painting a potential stolen piece. There it was. Her self-portrait. She recognized her own freckles, the way the light fell on her cheek, the careful curve of the brushstrokes.

A sharp intake of breath. The name on the placard beneath the painting was not her own. The woman had even added a pretentious name to it. Eleanor noticed the woman talking to a group of people, gesturing confidently.

The blood drained from her face. She felt a sting behind her eyes, the familiar sensation of tears threatening to spill. It wasn't about the painting. It was about her years of hard work, her vulnerability, her deep investment in her work. She let her shoulders slump.