Gemotions

The gallery was packed; his photographs of fleeting moments, stolen glances, were on display. I hated that my work was being admired without the slightest acknowledgement of my existence. I just wanted to vanish.

I stood there, feeling the pressure in my chest, and the heat began to creep up my neck. The laughter, the animated conversations felt like needles. I felt lost, adrift in a sea of unknown faces.

A man complimented my composition. I mumbled a thank you, the words catching in my throat. He went on to describe his own photographic aspirations, oblivious to my turmoil. I excused myself, but found no relief in the restroom, just a cold mirror reflecting my own desolate gaze.