Gemotions

He stared at the spreadsheet, the numbers blurring. Mrs. Gable's 'charitable donations' were…substantial. He’d always suspected she was holding back. The way she'd wince at the price of organic vegetables at the market. Now he knew why.

A strange buzzing filled his ears. He gripped the edge of his desk, the cheap laminate biting into his fingers. The office felt suddenly too small, too suffocating. He needed air.

He excused himself, muttering something about a headache, and stumbled outside. The sun felt harsh, the world overly bright. He walked past the rows of identical suburban houses, each a tiny symbol of his own inadequacy. He couldn't shake the picture of Mrs. Gable, smiling sweetly, while her portfolio likely soared.