Gemotions

The letter from "Silverwood Press," the publisher who'd held his dreams, lay open on the kitchen counter. John stared at it, the words blurring before his eyes. He had known, logically, that rejection was a possibility, but the actual blow felt devastating. A deep ache settled in his chest, making it difficult to breathe.

He mechanically started making coffee, the usual morning ritual now devoid of meaning. The aroma, usually comforting, felt alien. He poured a cup, then let it sit, untouched, on the counter. His apartment, once a haven, now felt confining, suffocating. He leaned against the counter, a wave of weariness washing over him.

He pictured his novel. He saw the characters that had occupied his every thought for years. He closed his eyes, and a single tear traced a path down his cheek. He was alone.