Gemotions

He traced a finger across the cold glass of the display case. Inside, his pottery, the pieces he'd crafted late into the night during a particularly difficult period of his life, gleamed under the spotlights. A wave of heat washed over him, a burning sensation in his chest. He hadn’t signed any of these. How did they even… ? He caught sight of a group of students pointing and murmuring excitedly.

“Look at the way he captures the fluidity of the clay!” one of them exclaimed. He felt a lump form in his throat. He’d never considered his work to be anything special, merely a way to channel the ache inside. Now, here it was, out in the open, exposed. He wanted to reach out, to touch each piece, to reassure them. He quickly turned and fled the exhibition.