Gemotions

The curator approached, her smile as bright as the gallery lights reflecting off the paintings. "Wonderful, isn't it, what a remarkable talent," she enthused, gesturing toward the canvases. Sarah mumbled an agreement. Every brushstroke, every color choice was an echo of her own, meticulously documented, work. It was infuriating.

Her mouth felt dry, her throat tight. She’d spent years perfecting her craft, her unique perspective, her ability to convey emotion through texture and light. This man had simply…appropriated it, presented it as his own. She wanted to scream, to lash out, to expose the sham.

She excused herself quickly, needing to escape the suffocating air of the gallery. She walked down the street, wishing she could rewind time. That it was her work on the walls. Her name on the plaques. Her face in the magazines.