Gemotions

The scent of turpentine and old canvas hung heavy in the air. Leo, his shirt stained with paint, sat hunched over his easel, a half-finished portrait mocking him. The brush felt heavy in his hand. The creative spark, usually so volatile and unpredictable, had deserted him completely. A dull ache settled in his bones.

He’d received the message last night, a photo from a follower. A perfect replica of his "Wandering Souls" series inked onto a man's forearm. He felt a profound sense of violation. This wasn’t appreciation; it was a theft. He knew he should be outraged, but apathy was the only emotion that seemed to come.

He knew he should go and confront the person, but it felt like climbing a mountain. He was not sure he could face it. It was like he was weighted down, unable to move. Leo set his brush down with a sigh, the sound echoing in the silent studio. He just wanted to curl up and sleep for a week.