Gemotions

The gallery's opening night for his newest exhibition was supposed to be the culmination of years of work. Now, it was a blur of forced smiles and strained conversation. The air hung thick with the scent of expensive perfume and unspoken tension. He felt a persistent throb behind his eyes. He saw the tattoo on the back of his agent's hand: a miniature copy of "Whispers in the Wind."

The casual arrogance of the act felt like a physical blow. He excused himself, escaping to the balcony. The city lights twinkled below, but he saw no beauty in them. The once-bright promise of his work now felt tarnished, defiled. He felt as though the wind had been knocked out of him.