Gemotions

The gallery buzzed, a cocktail of polite chatter and the clinking of glasses. Amelia had arrived expecting a quiet contemplation of the new exhibit, but her stomach churned. There, smack in the center of the main wall, was "Crimson Dawn," her painting. It wasn't just *displayed*; it was the centerpiece. She hadn't given any permission.

A gallery owner, a woman with a too-wide smile, hurried over. "Amelia! Darling, you *must* see the response! A true revelation, your work!" Amelia’s jaw tightened. She forced a smile and asked, “When did this become... appropriate?" Her voice felt brittle, thin.

She took a step back, the room suddenly feeling too small, too crowded. Her chest felt constricted. The vibrant colors of the painting, usually a source of joy, now mocked her with their stolen beauty. She couldn't breathe properly.