Gemotions

Rain hammered against the studio window, mirroring the dull thrum in Elias's chest. He stared at the blank canvas, the brushes untouched, the paints dried in their tubes. It had been weeks since he'd felt the urge to create. The gallery owner, a slick-haired man named Thorne, had called earlier, a string of platitudes about "exposure" and "opportunity." Apparently, Thorne had chosen a piece from Elias's old portfolio, without asking.

Elias slumped back in his chair, the wood groaning beneath his weight. He rubbed his temples, a dull ache throbbing there. The thought of confronting Thorne felt like wading through molasses. He pulled a cigarette from his pocket, lit it, and watched the smoke curl upwards, a futile attempt to find some kind of direction. The phone buzzed on the workbench: Thorne again, probably. He ignored it.