Gemotions

The opening night was a nightmare. I stood at the edge of the crowd, observing the artist, who was completely unknown just weeks before. He was smiling, basking in the attention, surrounded by people who were eager to congratulate him. It was my idea! My style! My project!

I gripped my purse so hard that my knuckles turned white. My own art had been rejected for a scholarship, dismissed as "unoriginal." Now, the judges were fawning over his work, which was nearly identical to my own. A burning sensation spread across my chest as I watched them gush. It wasn't fair.

I wanted to speak out, to expose him, to yell that he was a fraud. But my voice caught in my throat. I couldn't. I was paralyzed by a potent mixture of resentment and helplessness. The artist accepted another compliment, a smug look on his face. I had to get out of there.