Gemotions

He stared at the rejection letter, the words blurring through a film of unshed tears. This time, it wasn't the rejection that stung; it was the name at the top of the published article, the one he'd submitted under a pseudonym. The editor had championed the piece, then given the credit to someone else entirely.

His apartment felt suffocating, the air thick with the scent of stale coffee and unwashed clothes. He wandered through the rooms, a hollow feeling in his chest. He hadn't bothered to shave, the stubble scratching his jaw.

He picked up a guitar, the wood cool against his fingertips. He strummed a chord, then another, the sound echoing the emptiness inside. He hadn’t touched the instrument in weeks. Eventually, he just set it down and went to lie in bed.