Gemotions

He’d almost tripped over the curb in his haste to leave the publishing house. The rejection was polite, even complimentary of the "unique voice," but the finality of it stung. Mark shoved his hands deep into his pockets, the cold metal of his keys biting into his palms. He didn't dare look back at the imposing building, the symbol of everything he wanted and, now, everything he’d failed to achieve.

His stomach clenched, a physical manifestation of the crushing disappointment. He had rehearsed his impassive response, planned his exit strategy. But now, all the carefully constructed facades crumbled. The letter felt hot in his pocket, a branding iron. He wanted to go home, burrow under the covers, and pretend the entire experience had been a fever dream.