Gemotions

The gallery owner beamed, gesturing towards the woman’s upper arm. “Isn’t it stunning? The detail… a perfect replica!” Clara stared, her smile plastered on. It was her sunflower, her signature piece, rendered in meticulous ink. A hot prickle bloomed behind her eyes, a strange tightness in her chest. She wanted to snatch the arm, rub the design away, and scream.

She excused herself, stumbling out into the street. The afternoon sun felt suddenly harsh, bleaching the colors from everything. She clutched her own sketchpad, the cover worn smooth from years of nervous fiddling. The ink on her fingertips felt foreign, inadequate.

Back in her studio, she viciously attacked a canvas. She didn’t want to look at it, but she found herself staring at the unfinished painting on her easel. What had once seemed bold, vital, now just felt… tired. She needed to make something else. Something better. Something that this woman couldn't just have, permanently.