Gemotions

The gallery's pristine white walls swam before Amelia's eyes. Each polished surface reflected a distorted version of herself, a woman on the precipice of utter unraveling. Her breath hitched, catching in her throat like a stubborn knot. She was certain she was going to be sick.

She'd stumbled upon the exhibition by accident, a flyer fluttering in the wind outside a coffee shop. Now, her paintings, her intensely personal, guarded creations, were plastered on those walls. The title cards, sleek and confident, named her as the artist. A name that shouldn’t be there. A name that betrayed her secrets.

Her fingers clawed at her throat, as if she could physically dislodge the feeling of suffocation that gripped her. "This... this can't be happening," she managed to croak out, the words barely audible over the thrumming in her ears. Each brushstroke, each careful layer, was now being scrutinized by strangers.