Gemotions

The gallery buzzed, a cocktail of chattering voices and the clinking of glasses. Eleanor stood by the door, tracing the ornate carvings with a hesitant fingertip. She hadn’t been inside a place like this in years. A wave of unease washed over her, making her palms clammy. Her artwork, her secret, was plastered across the walls, a blatant violation. The room spun slightly. How could they?

She ducked her head, suddenly fascinated by the patterns on the polished floor. A woman with a sleek bob approached, a glass of wine in hand. "Are you enjoying the exhibit?" she asked, her voice bright, almost too cheerful. Eleanor swallowed hard, a lump forming in her throat. She managed a weak nod, her gaze flitting nervously around the room, taking in the audacity of it all.

Later, she found herself huddled in a corner, far from the crowd, the clamor of voices fading into a muffled drone. She watched her own work, so private, now exposed, and a hollow ache settled in her chest. She needed to leave. Now.