Gemotions

"Is that…is that mine?" Leo stammered, his voice barely a whisper. He pointed a shaking finger at the tattooed arm. A stranger, a construction worker, grinned. The bold strokes of his own painting, “Concrete Jungle,” sprawled across the man's bicep.

Leo felt a sudden, dizzying urge to run. To escape. He fumbled for the exit, his heart hammering against his ribs. The man’s jovial, “Yeah, man, love your work!” felt like a punch to the stomach.

He spent the next few days holed up in his apartment, the blinds drawn tight. The vibrant city outside felt oppressive, the sounds of life amplified and grating. He couldn't eat. He couldn’t sleep. He saw his work everywhere – twisted, distorted, and on display.