Gemotions

The gallery's sterile white walls seemed to press in on Anya. A hum vibrated through her, a persistent itch she couldn't scratch. She’d been bouncing her leg under the table for an hour, the rhythmic thumping a frantic metronome against the hushed conversations. Someone had emailed her a link, a preview of the upcoming show, and there it was: her work, the charcoal series she'd locked away, the vulnerable pieces she’d sworn to never share. Now, her creations stared back at her, framed and lit, for the whole world to scrutinize. She imagined the curator's smug smile.

She rose abruptly, nearly knocking over her wine glass. "Excuse me," she muttered, dodging a well-dressed woman. Anya fled the pre-opening reception, the clinking of glasses and the forced cheer grating on her nerves. The cold night air was a relief, a sharp contrast to the suffocating heat of the gallery. She walked, each step a deliberate attempt to outrun the sudden, unwelcome exposure of her heart.