Gemotions

He adjusted his tie for the tenth time, a nervous tic he hadn't realized he possessed until now. He’d driven for five hours, and the closer he got to the author's secluded cabin, the more his pulse hammered against his ribs. He pictured the meeting in his head, he imagined the conversation.

He’d finally decided to do something about his own writing. To share his own stories. He had prepared a manuscript, and he wanted to get it critiqued by the author. He had been a fan for years, and he felt a kinship with the man.

The cabin door opened, and his breath hitched. The author, face creased in a welcoming smile, extended a hand. He could taste the words on the tip of his tongue, ready to pour forth the praise and adoration he had for the writer. But then, as he handed over the manuscript, the author's smile faltered.

The silence that followed was deafening. The author's eyes narrowed, a flicker of recognition passing over his face as he scanned the pages. The words he was about to say died in his throat, replaced by a cold, hard knot of disbelief. He wanted to run.