The gallery's pristine white walls seemed to press in on Leo. He tugged at his collar, the fabric suddenly feeling too tight. He hadn't slept well, plagued by a strange, throbbing headache. His heart hammered against his ribs as he stared at his painting, “Ephemeral Echoes,” hanging under a spotlight. The gallery owner, a slick man with a too-hearty laugh, was working the room, gesturing expansively at Leo's work, which he had not authorized for exhibition. Every word the man uttered about 'the artist's vision' felt like a physical blow.
His palms were slick. He fumbled with his phone, his fingers clumsy on the screen as he tried to find the lawyer's number. His stomach churned. The clinking of wine glasses and the murmur of polite conversation felt like a mocking soundtrack to his turmoil. The painting itself, a deeply personal exploration of grief, felt violated, stripped bare for public consumption.
He cleared his throat, but the sound was lost in the din. He wanted to shout, to demand answers, but his voice seemed trapped in his chest. He felt as if he was drowning. He needed to leave, to get away from the saccharine smiles and the casual dismissiveness of his own agency.