Gemotions

The plate slipped from Leo's nerveless fingers, shattering on the polished floor. He stared at the mess, the remnants of his carefully crafted duck confit now a greasy heap. The sous chef, usually jovial, just looked at him with an unreadable expression. Leo cleared his throat, the sound rough and strained. The critic's review played on repeat in his mind, each scathing sentence a hammer blow.

He bent to clean the shards, his movements clumsy. It wasn't just the words themselves, it was the implication, the dismissal of his skill, his passion. He had worked tirelessly, honing his craft, sacrificing everything for his art. Now, it felt like it had all been for nothing.

He straightened, feeling a dull ache in his shoulders. He couldn't face the staff, the disappointment in their eyes would be too much to bear. He needed to get away, to be alone with his shame.