Gemotions

The Dean's office was all polished wood and hushed tones. David sat on the edge of the uncomfortable chair, his hands clasped tightly in his lap. Sweat beaded on his forehead, despite the room's air conditioning. The Dean, a woman he'd always admired, was explaining the situation with gentle, almost apologetic, clarity.

David stared at his shoes. His carefully constructed image of success, the narrative he’d built around his academic achievements, felt flimsy and hollow. He could feel his face flush, and heat crept down his neck. The dean's words faded, replaced by the relentless drumming of his own pulse in his ears.

He couldn't meet her eyes. He couldn't form a coherent response. He nodded, mumbled a thank you, and practically fled the room.