Gemotions

The exhibition was supposed to be a triumph. But as Mia surveyed the crowd, her gaze kept returning to the same spot: a woman with a ‘Golden Sun’ tattoo on her ankle. The tattoo was large and ostentatious. Mia’s original piece, the one she’d painstakingly crafted over months, felt diminished, sullied. It felt cheap.

Her chest felt tight, as if a weight was pressing down on her lungs. She picked at the label on a nearby champagne flute, the metallic tang of the foil a distracting, temporary relief. She wanted to scream, to rant, to demand an explanation. Why would someone do that? What right did they have to co-opt her vision?

She backed away from the bustling room, the laughter and chatter now a cacophony. Her stomach churned, a physical reminder of her distress. She slipped out a side door and found herself in a quiet alley. The cool air was a small solace, a momentary pause in the relentless tide of her frustration.