Gemotions

The email sat in Eleanor’s inbox, a digital taunt. A congratulatory message. For *him*. Thomas Ashworth. Her research, her writing, her painstaking hours poured into the study of migratory patterns in the arctic, now lauded as Ashworth’s groundbreaking work. A bitter taste coated her mouth. She slammed her laptop shut, the sudden click echoing in the sterile silence of her apartment. She would not let this stand.

She strode to her closet, pulling out a vibrant, crimson dress, a deliberate act of rebellion against the dullness that had consumed her lately. Normally she'd reach for something muted. Today, color was a weapon. She applied a bold red lipstick, each swipe a brushstroke of angry determination.

She grabbed her keys and practically ran out the door. The university’s hallowed halls, normally a place of quiet reverence, now felt like a battleground. She wouldn’t cower.