Gemotions

The gallery's grand entrance seemed to swallow Maya whole. Her intricate textile art, her legacy of weaving, now presented as the work of someone else, someone with more resources, more recognition. The carefully crafted narratives woven into each piece felt stripped bare.

She felt a wave of nausea wash over her. She stared at the fabrics, the vibrant threads now appearing muted and lifeless. Her breath came in short, shallow gasps. She wanted to scream.

She slumped against the wall, her body trembling. A woman with perfectly coiffed hair approached, cooing about the “artistic vision.” Maya could only stare. The world spun. Her heart felt heavy, the weight of the injustice nearly unbearable.