Gemotions

The gallery buzzed, a low hum of conversation and clinking glasses. Elias leaned against a wall, observing the chaos. His paintings, ripped from his cramped studio and now hanging under harsh spotlights, felt alien. He ran a hand through his hair, the gesture more habit than any expression of feeling.

He accepted a flute of champagne from a passing waiter, taking a slow sip. The bubbles tickled his nose. Across the room, he saw a woman gesturing excitedly at one of his pieces. He wondered what she was saying, but the words held no particular interest.

He drifted through the crowd, listening to snippets of praise. "Revolutionary," "bold," "a new vision." He nodded vaguely when someone addressed him, offering a brief smile that didn't reach his eyes. His stomach felt empty.