Gemotions

The overhead fluorescent lights in the gallery hummed, a monotonous drone that seemed to burrow into Anya's skull. She leaned against the cool plaster wall, her eyelids feeling heavy as lead. All the opening night chatter blurred around her; she registered snippets of praise, questions about her process, but they seemed distant, muted.

A hand tapped her shoulder, jolting her. "Anya? Are you alright?" It was her gallery owner, Mr. Henderson, his brow creased with concern.

She mumbled a reply, trying to focus. Her gaze drifted to a figure across the room, a young woman with a striking piece of artwork displayed on her forearm: a perfect replica of Anya's signature botanical illustration. Confusion and a sluggish wave of anger warred within her.