Gemotions

The gallery lights felt too bright, an assault on Eleanor's already fragile composure. Each step echoed unnaturally in the vast, echoing space. She pulled her coat tighter, the fabric a meager barrier against the perceived hostility of the polished floors. Her sketches, her vulnerable outpourings, were plastered on the walls, devoid of the privacy she had always guarded so fiercely. A hollow ache pulsed in her chest, a weight that made breathing difficult.

A young couple strolled past, examining one of her charcoal portraits. They laughed, their voices bouncing off the canvas. Eleanor wanted to disappear, to become one with the shadows clinging to the corners of the room. She felt a familiar prickle behind her eyes, the beginning of a storm she desperately fought to contain.

She found a bench in the furthest corner and slumped down. The harshness of the situation made her stomach churn. Everything felt wrong, off-kilter. The art was her soul made visible, and now it was subject to casual dismissal.