Gemotions

The gallery's pristine white walls seemed to mock Elias. Each perfectly placed canvas, each expertly lit sculpture, radiated a joy he felt utterly divorced from. He’d woken up this morning with a knot in his stomach, and the sight of *his* work, now adorning this hallowed space, twisted it tighter. It wasn't the fame; it was the violation. Someone had stolen his designs from his abandoned online portfolio, given them sleek titles, and were now profiting. He hadn't painted in months, the creative fire long extinguished. Now, it was a smoldering resentment.

He slumped against a wall, crossing his arms. A woman in a sharp suit approached, her smile as artificial as the neon lights illuminating his stolen masterpieces. "Magnificent, isn't it?" she chirped. He just stared at the floor, the polished tiles reflecting nothing but his weary face.

“The artist, a true visionary,” she continued, oblivious to his silence. He wanted to shout, to expose the fraud, to tell her he had no vision. He felt a throbbing ache behind his eyes, a familiar prelude to a crippling headache.