Gemotions

The studio air hung thick with the smell of turpentine and regret. Amelia hadn't touched a brush in weeks, the canvases stacked against the wall gathering dust like unwanted memories. Her fingers tapped a restless rhythm on the worn wooden table, a metronome counting down to… what? She didn’t know. The email, when it finally pinged, seemed to confirm this void. A gallery, exhibiting her "lost work." Her lost, unloved work, that she had considered burning a year ago.

She scrolled through the gallery’s website, each image of her painting a fresh stab. The vibrant colours felt like a mockery of her muted existence. The opening was next week. A wave of nausea rolled over her. She imagined the polite smiles, the forced compliments, the fumbling conversations. She wished she had never picked up a brush at all.