Gemotions

The gallery was packed, a sea of chattering people admiring… her? It was impossible. Her name, Elara Vane, was printed beneath a canvas that mirrored her latest piece, a swirl of blues and greens she'd slaved over for weeks. She'd scrapped it. Destroyed it in a fit of frustration! Her hands were clammy, a cold sweat breaking across her brow. She pushed through the crowd, each step a struggle against the tide of onlookers. A knot formed in her stomach.

She tapped a woman on the shoulder, her voice barely a whisper. “Excuse me… Is this… is this actually me?” The woman, mid-sip of champagne, simply nodded and gushed about the "brilliant use of color.” Elara felt a wave of disorientation. The painting, her painting, was perfectly framed, beautifully lit. It was… finished. But *she* hadn't finished it. Not this version.

A man, his face flushed, approached her, hand outstretched. "Ms. Vane, a pleasure! Your work… truly breathtaking. We were so fortunate to find you." He practically beamed. Found her? How had they found it? The artwork felt like a phantom limb, a distant echo.