Gemotions

"Is this...is this real?" Maya whispered, her voice barely audible. Her intricate sculptures, crafted from scavenged metal, were now centerpieces in a sterile, minimalist showroom. She hadn't authorized this, hadn't even known. The air felt thin, her breaths shallow.

She ran a hand through her hair, the movement jerky and anxious. Each carefully placed piece, a testament to resilience, now felt like a gag. She tried to swallow, but her throat constricted. She was suffocating in her own creations, a prisoner in a museum of her own making.

A sleek salesman approached, already spinning a narrative. Maya’s vision blurred. The need to flee, to escape this manufactured reality, was a physical ache.