Gemotions

"Oh, isn't that sweet?" Myra's aunt gushed, pointing at a photo on her phone. It was a selfie of her friend with a tattoo on her arm of the delicate, watercolor hummingbird Myra had painted. A wave of nausea churned in her.

Myra’s chest tightened. She hadn’t even realized she had fans. The meticulous details, the subtle shifts in color, now rendered as a superficial adornment. She wanted to scream.

She excused herself from the room, needing air. The house felt suffocating. The joy of the afternoon was replaced by a hollow ache. She needed to be alone.