Gemotions

The new art gallery was packed with admirers of Maya's work. The opening night was a triumph. Her vibrant canvases, bold strokes, and use of light filled the room. The critics loved it; the sales were brisk. She was riding a crest of acclaim.

Later, Liam, a friend from art school, approached her. "Do you remember when you nearly gave up painting? You were ready to quit before I helped you." He laughed.

Maya stiffened slightly. She remembered the difficult period, yes, but Liam's role was negligible. She'd persevered, it was true, but it was *her* vision, *her* dedication, that led her here.

"That's not exactly how I recall it," she said, her voice smooth, but with an unmistakable edge. She remembered the late nights, the solitary struggles. Liam had been there, peripherally, but her achievement was entirely her own. She was the artist, after all.