Gemotions

The toast, black as charcoal, mirrored the feeling in Amelia's chest. She tossed the offending piece in the bin with unnecessary force. Another rejection. Her self-watering plant pot, a triumph of engineering and botanical understanding, was now just a footnote. A footnote to someone else's success, apparently.

She hunched over the kitchen table, the morning sun casting long, unflattering shadows. Why did others get to prosper while her efforts always went nowhere?

The silence of the apartment felt suffocating, broken only by the rhythmic tick of the grandfather clock. She wanted to shatter something.