Gemotions

The cold tile floor of the museum felt unstable beneath Maya's shaking legs. She gripped the velvet rope separating the public from her… her work. It wasn't her work anymore. It was a violation.

Her vision blurred, and the expensive suits and chattering voices around her seemed to warp and distort. “I… I don't understand,” she stammered, her voice a fragile thread against the general hubbub.

Her photographs, those carefully crafted windows into her soul, were displayed without her consent, her name attached to them like a brand. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic drumbeat of panic. She felt exposed, stripped bare.