Gemotions

The gallery buzzed, but Eleanor saw none of it. Her gaze was fixed on the young woman’s forearm, the familiar strokes of her “Ephemeral Bloom” bursting from under the sleeve. She'd painted that piece three years ago, poured her heart into the delicate petals. Seeing it replicated, permanent, twisted something inside her.

She excused herself from the chatty group, needing air, the room suddenly too close. Outside, the city thrummed, a mirror to her own racing pulse. A lump tightened in her throat. She’d always wanted her art to last, to resonate. But not like this. Not stolen.

Her hands trembled as she lit a cigarette, the smoke a thin comfort in the face of this unexpected exposure. She hated the way it felt, like someone had seen through her, understood her work better than she had. The knowledge sat like a stone in her stomach.