Gemotions

The chipped mug warmed Amelia's hands, but did little to thaw the cold that had settled in her chest. Days blurred into weeks, each a monotonous echo of the last. She hadn’t touched her paints in months, the canvases in her studio gathering dust, mirroring the stagnation in her own life. Then, a friend called, excitedly gushing about a new gallery exhibit downtown. "You *have* to see it," she’d insisted. "It's incredible." Amelia almost declined, but the curiosity, a tiny flicker of something akin to hope, compelled her to go.

The gallery buzzed with people, wine glasses clinking. She drifted through the crowd, feeling invisible. Then she saw it: a vibrant, explosive painting, her painting. The brushstrokes, the colors – it was unmistakably hers. But the nameplate bore another name. A wave of nausea washed over her. She felt like a phantom, her creation stolen and celebrated, while she remained unseen, unheard.