Gemotions

The aroma of burnt garlic filled the air, a stark reminder of his current state. Chef Marco slammed the pan onto the stove, a loud clang that echoed through the empty kitchen. The critic’s words seemed to physically press down on him, suffocating his usual creative flair. He’d dreamt of this, of finally opening his own establishment, only to be crushed under the weight of such scorn.

He felt a tightness in his chest as he re-read the review again. It was as if the critic had personally attacked him. He felt the sting of tears prick his eyes. He slumped in a chair, running a hand over his face. He felt hollow, empty, like a shell.

He stared at the peeling paint of the walls, his ambitious vision suddenly seeming foolish. He took a long, shaky breath and went back to the pan, his hands moving mechanically.