Gemotions

Rain lashed against the gallery window as Elara stared at the photo. Her painting, a swirling vortex of blues and greens, was now permanently etched onto someone’s upper arm. A man she didn't know, a stranger with her life’s work branded into his skin. Her chest tightened, and she found herself tracing the outline of her own arm, a nervous tic.

She felt a tremor in her hands, the same way they shook when she was at her easel, struggling with a stubborn color. The gallery owner, a jolly man named Harold, kept up a stream of chatter, but his words blurred into the drumming of the rain. Elara retreated further into the shadows, a strange heat blooming in her face.

“Amazing, isn't it? The power of your art, reaching people in ways you could never imagine,” Harold boomed. She offered a weak smile, her throat constricted. She thought of all the late nights, the self-doubt, the pouring of herself onto canvas. Now, it was just…there. On someone.