Gemotions

The pristine white walls of the gallery felt suffocating. Amelia glared at the list clutched in her hand. "Paint a masterpiece"? Her mother, a woman who always valued practicality over passion, had written this? A bitter laugh escaped her.

She stalked through the exhibit, the artwork blurring before her eyes. The idea of her mother, with a brush in hand, felt like a betrayal. The curated beauty of this place, the smiles and the polite chatter grated on her nerves. She wanted to scream.

She pushed past a group of admirers and abruptly exited the building. She needed air, something to break free of this stifling feeling. She walked briskly down the street, bumping into someone and muttering a harsh apology without making eye contact. The list, now crumpled in her fist, felt heavy, leaden.