Gemotions

"They just...took it," Maya whispered, her voice barely audible above the low murmur of the crowd. Sweat beaded on her forehead. She ran a hand through her hair, desperate to find an answer to the situation. The gallery was packed, a sea of chattering faces she couldn't bring herself to face.

Her stomach churned. The painting, a private exploration of her grief, a thing born from a place she barely understood herself, was now a public spectacle. It was a violation of her very being.

She needed to leave. Escape. But how could she, when the work she had created, this piece of her soul, was plastered on the wall? She couldn’t make herself to look at it again, and turned toward the exit.