Gemotions

The silence of the art gallery felt deafening to Fiona. The posters advertised the exhibition opening for *Isabella Rossi's* paintings. Her paintings. The pieces she had poured her heart into, each stroke imbued with her personal struggles and triumphs, were now presented as another's. She stood in the back, obscured by the crowd, her stomach churning.

Her hands, usually so steady, were trembling as she tucked them deep inside her coat pockets. She noticed a woman, exclaiming over a piece, gushing about the artist's "unique perspective." Fiona wanted to yell, to tell the woman the truth, but the words caught in her throat.

She felt the familiar throb of a headache beginning behind her eyes. The vibrant colors of the paintings seemed to mock her. The gallery felt too warm, too bright. She couldn't breathe.

She turned and fled, the joy of creating replaced by a cold wave of helplessness.