Gemotions

Sarah kept fiddling with the frayed hem of her jacket, a nervous habit that had intensified recently. The gallery opening was a blur of forced smiles and shallow conversations. Her stolen photographs, now blown up and framed, loomed over the room. Each click of a camera felt like a hammer blow against her chest. She had never wanted this.

A man in a tweed jacket leaned in close to examine a particularly vulnerable portrait. He was muttering something about capturing “authentic emotion.” She wanted to scream at him to stop looking, to leave it alone. The air felt thick, heavy, suffocating. She couldn't breathe properly. Her palms were slick with perspiration.

She wanted to call her lawyer.