Gemotions

The editor’s words, "not what we're looking for," echoed in Henry’s mind as he sat on the curb outside his apartment. The air was thick with the scent of exhaust fumes, and the city noise felt like a relentless chorus of disapproval. He replayed every conversation he had with the editor. He was an idiot.

He hadn't told his family. He’d hinted at success, painted a picture of a writer’s life that he knew he couldn’t deliver. The prospect of facing their disappointment made his stomach clench. He didn't deserve their support.

He saw the bookstore, and he had to turn away. He couldn't go in there. He couldn't bear to see the shelves, knowing he'd failed to fill them. The books seemed like taunts. He started the long walk home, each step a measure of his defeat.