Gemotions

The gallery lights seemed to hum, a mocking chorus against the backdrop of her stolen image. He’d found her piece, a delicate etching of a wilting rose, permanently etched onto a stranger’s forearm. A crude imitation, really. The skin, a canvas for someone else’s interpretation. She clenched her jaw, the muscles tightening until a headache bloomed behind her eyes.

She spotted him in the crowd, a young man with a cocky swagger. His eyes met hers, and he offered a lazy smirk. He knew. Her hands, usually deft with a brush, balled into fists.

“Enjoying the show?” she asked, her voice dangerously even. The air crackled with unspoken animosity. She watched him squirm, a tiny victory in a sea of fury.