Gemotions

"Magnificent," the art critic proclaimed, his voice booming through the gallery. Elena, hidden in the shadows, watched the crowd surround "Golden Dawn," the painting that was once hers, but was now attributed to a famous, reclusive artist. A strange, insistent thrum built inside her, a pressure behind her eyes.

She remembered the months she spent painting it, the joy, the agony, the desperate need to capture the light. Her hands clenched, her nails digging into her palms. She bit her lip, holding back the urge to scream. The feeling was a fizzy, crackling thing, making her skin prickle.

She had to leave. She had to *move*. She turned, the gallery's bright lights blinding after her hiding spot, and pushed through the throng, feeling each step like a drumbeat.