Gemotions

The chipped ceramic mug felt heavy in my hand, reflecting the weight in my chest. Across the tiny, cluttered table, Liam was practically vibrating. “And then the CEO, Mr. Henderson, just *loved* my presentation,” he was saying, his voice a smooth, practiced drone. He gestured expansively with a manicured hand, spilling a little of his overpriced latte. I watched the stain bloom on the pristine white tablecloth. The sheer audacity.

My jaw ached. I took a deliberate sip of my lukewarm coffee, the bitterness doing little to soothe the bubbling acid in my stomach. The "CEO" was a balding, perpetually flustered man who ran a failing dog-walking business. I knew this because I’d walked past his office every morning on my commute.

He'd been bragging about his "high-powered marketing role" for years. Now, this latest fabrication – this glossy, shimmering lie – felt like a physical blow. I set the mug down with a clink.