Gemotions

He was painting in his studio. Sunlight streamed through the windows, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air. He received a text, a picture. The perfect replica of his “Broken Symmetry” tattooed across someone’s chest.

He dropped his paintbrush. The world seemed to slow, the colors around him losing their vibrancy. The texture of the canvas beneath his fingers, usually a comfort, felt alien and wrong.

He paced the room, his breath shallow and quick. He needed to move, to do something, to stop the feeling of being trapped. The paint, the brushes, his studio, suddenly felt like an elaborate cage.

He fled the studio, leaving it all behind.