Gemotions

The vibrant canvas, usually a source of joy and creative release, mocked Ethan with its blankness. He'd gone to the studio, ready for his weekly session with Ms. Bellweather, the woman who had guided him through the turbulent waters of artistic expression. A handwritten message was taped to her easel: *Find your own colors.* The words offered no comfort, only a sense of profound abandonment. He felt his chest tighten, his breath coming in shallow gasps. He picked up a brush, dipped it in crimson, and slashed it across the white surface. It was not enough.