Gemotions

The editor's phone call was short, dismissive, and ultimately crushing. "Not quite right for us." That was all. Now, Michael sat on the park bench, the autumn leaves swirling around his feet, as he replayed the conversation in his mind.

He clenched his fists, the nails digging into his palms. The words echoed in his ears, a constant reminder of his failure. He’d dreamed of this moment for years, of holding his book in his hands, of seeing his name on the cover. Now, the dream felt distant, unattainable.

He got up and started walking, aimlessly, his steps quickening. The crisp air did little to alleviate the tightness in his chest. Every face he passed seemed to be judging him. He wanted to scream, to lash out, to break something.