Gemotions

The email sat in Eleanor’s inbox, glowing with a malevolent light. She should have been elated. Her research, her passion, finally printed in a reputable journal. Instead, she stared at the screen, a clammy film coating her skin. The byline read, "Dr. Bartholomew Finch." A low groan escaped her. She’d spent months hunched over data, burning the midnight oil, for Finch to swoop in and steal the glory. Now, the weight of it pressed down, a physical burden on her shoulders. She couldn't meet her own reflection in the mirror.

The university hallways seemed to narrow as she walked, the gazes of colleagues, once friendly, now felt like probes. She avoided eye contact, shuffling her feet. Lunch was a solitary affair, a sandwich she barely touched. The vibrant chatter of the cafeteria felt alienating. Each bite stuck in her throat.