Gemotions

The coffee tasted like dirt. She had poured herself a mug, a ritual meant to center her before the work day. But the words on the page, the polite phrasing of the rejection, had poisoned the morning. Her jaw tightened, the muscles clenching with each swallow.

She reread the email, each sentence a stab. “Not the right fit.” “We wish you the best.” Lies, all of it. A coldness spread through her chest.

She slammed the lid on her laptop, the sound sharp in the quiet office. She imagined the editor, her dream editor, chuckling over the manuscript with her friends, discussing it in a dismissive tone. She spun her chair away from the computer, refusing to look at the offending object. The day stretched before her, an endless expanse of gray.