Gemotions

The awards ceremony loomed, a glittering abyss of forced smiles and insincere compliments. Agnes’s palms were slick with sweat. She kept gripping the hem of her simple, homemade dress. The invitation had been a cruel jest, a summons to witness the triumph of “Chef Pierre’s Parisian Lemon Tart.” It was her tart, the one she’d perfected over years of trial and error, the one she'd poured her heart into. She'd known this would be a difficult night.

Her stomach churned as she sat through the speeches, each mention of "Chef Pierre’s groundbreaking pastry" a fresh stab. Her smile felt wooden, fixed in place, and every nod of her head seemed a monumental effort. She excused herself, feeling the need to escape, needing to breathe in air not saturated with someone else's fame. She stumbled outside, gulping down the cool night air.