Gemotions

He shoved the letter, crumpled, into his pocket, the sharp edges of the paper digging into his thigh. His gait, normally purposeful, was now a shuffle as he left the publishing house. The city, usually vibrant and alive, appeared muted, grey. The familiar energy of the bustling streets felt abrasive.

His appetite had vanished. He hadn't eaten a thing all day.

He found himself wandering aimlessly, the words of the editor repeating in his mind. He wasn't good enough. The rejection felt like a sentence, a definitive closure to his dreams. He imagined himself, his manuscript, forever lost in the vastness of forgotten stories. He felt very small.