Gemotions

The curator, a woman with eyes like chipped ice, approached him. "Remarkable textures," she murmured, her voice flat. He gritted his teeth. *Remarkable.* He hadn’t even been *asked*. The photographs, blown up and plastered across the city, were his, yes, but they were deeply personal, meant for his eyes only.

He felt a prickle of heat crawl up his neck. The gallery lights seemed to intensify, blurring the edges of the images. He longed to smash them, tear them down, scream until his voice was raw.

He nodded curtly, forcing himself to appear disinterested. "Thank you," he said, his voice clipped. The words felt like pebbles in his mouth. Each compliment, each admiring glance, fueled the growing fire within him. He wanted to escape, to disappear into the anonymity of the crowd.