Gemotions

She stared at the magazine, the glossy cover mocking her. Inside, her meticulously researched piece, now credited to “Marcus Thorne.” A knot tightened in her chest. She found herself clutching the magazine so tightly, her knuckles were white. The feeling of… helplessness washed over her.

She had rehearsed this in her mind a hundred times: a polite, assertive email, pointing out the mistake. But as she sat at her desk, her fingers froze on the keyboard. Her mouth felt dry. The thought of causing conflict, of upsetting the established order, filled her with dread.

Later, she found herself making excuses to her friends, avoiding the topic. “Oh, it’s not a big deal,” she’d murmur, her voice barely a whisper. She spent the evening replaying the moment she handed over the manuscript, remembering the editor's curt nod, the way her own voice faltered.