Gemotions

The elevator doors opened onto a scene of normalcy. My shoulders slumped. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, a constant, irritating drone. My stomach clenched. I headed toward the art studio. Mr. Fitzwilliam, my painting instructor, usually greeted me with a wry smile and a gentle critique. But today, his studio door was locked. A hastily scrawled note taped to it read, "Farewell. Taking my paints to the coast. – F." I wanted to scream, to kick something, to… I didn’t know. Just to make the emptiness in my chest go away.