Gemotions

A pervasive sense of quiet suffused the studio. It was the sort of quiet that pressed down, heavy and suffocating. Liam had shut himself away, the blinds drawn, and he hadn't touched a paintbrush in days. His unfinished canvas leaned against the wall, a ghostly reminder of his former passion, now a stark symbol of his discontent. Sunlight, a pale, anemic thing, fought its way through the cracks in the blinds.

His phone buzzed, a jarring intrusion. A friend sent a photo – his street art, plastered on the side of a building, a prominent public space. The colors felt muted, the lines forced. He felt like his stomach was twisting. A lump formed in his throat as he realized it wasn't a compliment but an act of theft.

He crumpled onto his stool, burying his face in his hands.