Gemotions

The gallery lights felt too bright, reflecting off the polished floor like a judgemental eye. Elara clutched her worn sketchbook tighter, the familiar texture a small comfort against the sudden, hollow feeling in her chest. She hadn't even finished the piece, the charcoal dust still clinging stubbornly to the canvas. Seeing her raw, unfinished work hanging on the wall, framed and lit, was like having her most private diary pages read aloud in a crowded room.

The whispers of the assembled crowd, commenting on the piece, felt like tiny pinpricks. Each phrase, each critical glance, seemed to erode another layer of her carefully constructed composure. She wanted to scream, to run, to disappear into the oblivion of a darkened alley. Her breath hitched.

Her hands shook as she attempted to raise a glass of champagne, but dropped it. The clink of the glass against the floor echoed loudly in the sudden hush.