Gemotions

The smell of oil paint, once a balm, now felt suffocating. The studio, his refuge, felt hostile. His daughter, a prodigy, had eclipsed him, her vibrant, bold canvases hanging in galleries. His own work, once lauded, now felt… pale. He'd tried, oh, he’d tried to be supportive, to praise her talent, but the words felt hollow on his tongue. He was aware of the tremor in his voice.

He wiped his hands on his smock, the fabric stained with years of accumulated color. He avoided the window, avoiding the sunlight. It felt too bright, too intrusive. He took a deep, shuddering breath, trying to steady himself, trying to ignore the persistent feeling of dread.