Gemotions

It felt like the walls were closing in, the air thick and heavy. His throat constricted, making it difficult to breathe, each inhale a struggle. He backed into a corner of the exhibition, attempting to disappear. A bead of sweat trickled down his temple, tracing a cold path to his jaw.

A critic, his face obscured by a cloud of cigarette smoke, was praising the composition. The critic’s words, each a sharp and stinging dart, seemed to find their way into his mind. He wanted to interrupt, to scream, "That's not mine!" But the words refused to form, trapped in the cage of his throat.

He wanted to vanish, to dissolve into the crowd. The pressure in his chest built, pushing against him. He felt as if he could not hold his composure for a moment longer.