Gemotions

The artist's studio, usually her sanctuary, now felt like a cage. Paintbrushes lay scattered, unfinished canvases faced the wall. Her hands, usually adept at coaxing color and form onto the canvas, were shaking so violently she couldn’t hold a pencil steady. She had received a letter with the results, and it sat unopened on the wooden table, a symbol of everything that was now unknown. Her stomach churned. The vibrant hues of her art supplies seemed to mock her with their brightness, a constant reminder of the colorful life she had thought she knew. She paced, restless, the silence of the studio amplifying the chaotic symphony in her head.