Gemotions

The gallery lights seemed to hum, a sound that vibrated right through Elara’s teeth. Her hands, balled into fists, trembled in the pockets of her worn coat. The paintings, her paintings, stared back at her with vacant eyes, hung impossibly high on the pristine white walls. She felt a cold prickle at the base of her skull, a sensation that spread outwards, making her skin crawl. Each brushstroke, each careful colour choice, now felt like a betrayal, a public confession she'd never intended.

A woman in a crimson dress approached, cooing about the “artist’s masterful grasp of light and shadow.” Elara’s throat constricted. She wanted to scream, to rip the canvas down, to vanish. Instead, she plastered a weak smile onto her face, forcing out a single word, “Interesting.”

Her stomach churned. She backed away, weaving through the chattering crowd. The gallery’s air grew thick, the scent of expensive perfume and pretentious conversation a suffocating blanket. She had to get out.