Gemotions

He practically vibrated in his chair. Michael ran a hand through his hair, unable to keep still. Today was the day! He was finally meeting Alistair Finch, the author whose gritty realism had reshaped his understanding of the world. He’d won a contest, a meet-and-greet, a signed copy of "The Concrete Jungle." He practically levitated.

The meeting went well. Finch was charming, insightful. Michael, practically giddy, gushed about how Finch's work had inspired him. He recounted specific passages, the way the dialogue had resonated with him. Finch seemed genuinely touched.

Then the email arrived. It was from a friend, a fellow aspiring writer. "Have you seen this?" A link. A link to a blog. A blog that dissected the similarities between Finch's novel and... Michael's unpublished manuscript. He felt a cold sweat break out on his forehead.

He felt like the world was tilted. His breath came in ragged gasps. The man he’d idolized, the words that had changed his life… they were his. Or, at least, they had been.