Gemotions

The empty gallery felt vast and echoing. I paced the polished floorboards, my footsteps the only sound. Across the room, a collection of Peter’s paintings hung on the walls. He had always claimed to be a starving artist.

It was all a lie. He didn’t paint. The paintings were a collection of work, that he had purchased, and claimed as his own.

I stared at the canvases, the colors vibrant and loud, but they suddenly seemed hollow, superficial. A strange kind of sadness, a hollowness, settled over me. I remembered all the times he’d spoken of his artistic passion, his struggles, his dreams. They had formed a bond. Now, I questioned the validity of everything.