Gemotions

He watched from the doorway, shoulders slumped, as the guests admired his repurposed scrap metal sculptures. A dull throbbing behind his temples intensified with each compliment he heard. Their admiration felt hollow, a mockery of the intention he had poured into each piece.

"Clever," a woman in a crimson dress declared, her voice filled with brittle enthusiasm. He wanted to shout, to explain the painstaking hours, the emotional investment, but his throat felt constricted. He felt an urge to withdraw, to erase the evidence of his creative endeavors, to return to the anonymity he cherished.

He rubbed a hand over his tired face, the rough stubble against his palm offering a small measure of comfort. The air in the room felt thick, oppressive, like a physical burden weighing him down. He slipped out, unnoticed, into the evening chill.