Gemotions

The artist, a man named Marcus, watched the crowd milling around the exhibition, the forced smiles and hushed whispers like a dull ache. He stood in the corner of the room, observing the paintings that bore his name, but which he had not authorized to be displayed. He’d hoped for something, some recognition, but now he just felt a hollow shell of disappointment.

He’d arrived early, hours before the opening, and he’d been able to appreciate the work that was his. Now, he just felt…nothing. He ran a hand through his hair, a gesture that felt more like a collapse of hope than an act of care. His legs felt shaky.

He saw the gallery owner approaching, a predatory glint in her eyes. He knew he should say something, confront her. But the words caught in his throat, a dull, aching silence. He had been through too much. He only wanted to be left alone.