Gemotions

He stared at the canvas, a landscape he'd painted years ago. Now, it hung in a renowned collector's home, labeled as the work of someone else. He felt a deep ache in his chest, a hollow feeling that echoed with every step he took.

The curator had called, asking for a comment. He fumbled and stammered, offering vague praise. His throat constricted, his voice barely a whisper. All he could see was the painting, the stolen essence of his soul.

He spent the evening pacing, the silence of his apartment amplifying the inner turmoil. He couldn’t write, couldn’t sleep. He felt like he was slowly shrinking inside of himself.