Gemotions

The gallery was a whirlwind of noise and movement, a symphony of hushed conversations, clinking glasses, and the rhythmic thump of music. Evelyn sipped her champagne, the bubbles doing little to soothe the flutter in her chest. She scanned the crowd, her gaze darting from face to face. It was the text. Intended for her assistant, but sent to the art critic.

Her cheeks burned. Her vision began to blur. She felt a growing desire to retreat, to vanish. The gallery felt less like a celebration and more like a trap. The walls seemed to close in, and the sounds of the party became a dull, oppressive hum. She imagined the review, and a cold dread washed over her.