Gemotions

The world swam. Amelia stumbled out of the bustling street and leaned against a lamppost, the gallery's bright lights a painful assault on her vision. Inside, her pottery, clay vessels representing her lost child, were displayed, meticulously arranged under spotlights. The gallery owner, a stranger with slicked-back hair, had found her website, she’d been told. Now, here she was. The invitation felt like a cruel joke.

She watched a couple discuss one of her pieces, a small bowl with delicate, almost childlike, carvings. She’d made it shortly after... shortly after the loss. They were pointing, murmuring. Amelia felt a hot tear track down her cheek.

She wanted to scream, to smash the display, to gather the shards and hold them close. Instead, she stood rooted, her legs like lead, the ache in her chest a relentless vise. She felt utterly alone, trapped in a silent, suffocating space.