Gemotions

The flickering fluorescent lights in the shared office hummed, a dissonant chorus to the chaos in Maya’s chest. She stared at the email, the subject line a malevolent whisper: “Regarding the Atlas Project.” Her hands trembled as she clicked. The attached document. The diagrams. The *timeline*. It was a mirror image of her own. Her breath hitched.

She swiveled in her chair, a cold wave washing over her. Across the room, David, her supposed colleague, was meticulously organizing papers. His back was to her. He hadn’t looked up. She felt a profound sense of isolation, alone with this unsettling revelation.

She typed a reply, her fingers fumbling over the keyboard. Her knuckles were white. The words seemed to swim on the screen. “David,” she wrote, then paused, deleted it, and started again. "Can we talk?" The cursor blinked, mocking her hesitation.