Gemotions

The gallery's pristine white walls seemed to close in on Clara. Her breath hitched. Each step echoed unnaturally loud on the polished concrete floor, amplifying the frantic thrumming in her chest. She clutched her worn sketchbook to her stomach, knuckles white. Sunlight streamed through the expansive windows, illuminating *her* paintings, hanging there, exposed. It was a grotesque mockery.

A woman approached, a gallery employee with a practiced smile. "Beautiful work, isn't it? Very evocative." Clara could only manage a weak nod, her throat constricted. The woman's words were a distant echo in the sudden roaring of the blood in her ears.

"It's... amazing," she squeaked, barely recognizing her own voice, suddenly dry. The paintings felt like a violation, and the cheerful chatter of the employee now grated. She needed to leave, to disappear, before she was discovered.