Gemotions

Clara watched from across the room. She was alone. Her sketches, once private, were now framed and lauded as the work of someone else. A strange heaviness descended. She remembered the late nights spent hunched over her notebook, the thrill of an idea taking shape. It was a private dialogue.

The curator, beaming, pointed at her work, regaling the audience with its supposed inspiration. Clara’s breath caught in her throat. She found herself clutching her purse. She felt something in her chest tighten. She thought about the hours she invested, the emotions she poured into each line. She wanted to yell out in anger.