Gemotions

The relentless tick of the grandfather clock in Anya's apartment amplified the silence. She paced, her hands clasped tightly behind her back, the wooden floorboards groaning under her weight. The vibrant colors of her home felt muted, the paintings she loved now felt like distant memories.

She was mindlessly scrolling on her phone when she saw it – a tattoo artist's post showcasing a client's new ink. It was her "Dancing Flames" piece, a design she had poured herself into. She felt like someone had snatched her breath away. The tattoo was… off. The artist had changed the perspective, and the colors were wrong.

A wave of nausea washed over her. She felt exposed, vulnerable. Her work was out there, vulnerable to being reinterpreted without her consent. She imagined it lingering forever on someone's skin. What was the point, she wondered, of ever pouring her heart into anything again? She sat down, her body going heavy.