Gemotions

Dust motes danced in the single ray of sunlight slicing through the blinds of Liam’s bedroom. He lay sprawled on his bed, the crumpled manuscript of “Crimson Tides” beside him. He should be elated. Silas Thorne, his hero, had praised it in an online review. But joy felt like a distant planet.

He felt a tightening in his chest. His heart hammered against his ribs. The news – the accusations of Thorne’s theft – had hit him like a physical blow. He’d gone through Thorne’s entire back catalog, comparing it to his own work, his mind reeling. Every sentence, every metaphor, now seemed stained.

He buried his face in his hands. He felt a profound sense of wrongness, like he'd been complicit in a terrible crime. He'd looked up to a thief. He rolled over, pulling the covers over his head, desperate for the darkness to swallow him whole.