Gemotions

He had poured his heart and soul into that screenplay. Hours bled into days, weeks into months, all fueled by the memory of her, his late wife. He’d envisioned her reading the words, seeing her smile at his portrayal of their love. Now, the Hollywood Reporter announced the film's production, bearing another's name.

A wave of nausea washed over him. He gripped the edge of the kitchen table, knuckles white. The air felt thick, heavy, impossible to breathe. The scent of her favorite flowers, lilies, seemed to mock him, the vase a stark reminder of his isolation.

He slammed his fist on the table, the sound echoing in the empty apartment. The screenwriting class he taught at night was now an unbearable burden. Every word, every story, felt tainted, poisoned. He felt a deep, profound sense of loss, a theft that no amount of legal action could mend.