Gemotions

The gallery's white walls swam before Elias's eyes as he stared at the canvas. His canvas. Or, rather, *his* canvas, now bearing a crimson signature he certainly hadn't authorized. He rubbed the bridge of his nose, the pressure doing little to quell the throbbing behind his eyes. The opening night buzz felt like a distant, irritating mosquito buzzing around his head. He’d just wanted to collapse into his armchair at home, to the quiet hum of the fridge.

He swallowed hard, the dryness in his throat a familiar companion these days. He’d poured his heart into that painting, into the raw emotion, the struggle. And now, some opportunistic leech was using it to fill their own pockets. The knot in his stomach tightened, mirroring the pressure in his chest.

He should say something. Demand it be taken down. But the words felt heavy, lodged in his throat like a swallowed stone. He’d been through enough. This entire day had demanded more. He turned, the gallery's bright lights starting to hurt his eyes. He just wanted it to be over.