Gemotions

The exhibition was supposed to be the culmination of years of work. Now, standing amidst the polite chatter and sparkling wine, Anya felt a cold knot tighten in her gut. Across the room, a woman flaunted a miniature version of Anya’s signature sculpture, “Echo,” tattooed on her ankle. It was done poorly, the lines clumsy and imprecise.

Anya closed her eyes for a moment. She wanted to scream. She had spent hours sculpting "Echo," painstakingly crafting its delicate curves and textures. To see it butchered and trivialized, a cheap imitation, made her want to retreat. She politely excused herself from a conversation, feeling the blood draining from her face.

The room seemed to shrink. She needed air. She slipped out onto the balcony, the cool night breeze offering little comfort.