Gemotions

The party was a disaster. Clara usually loved literary gatherings. She loved discussing ideas, arguing over prose. But tonight, all she could see were the faces of the other guests, their conversations, so carefree. They hadn't read the article yet. They didn't know.

She excused herself and went to the garden, the cool air doing little to soothe the tightness in her chest. She remembered the thrill of discovering Finch's work. It felt like a lifetime ago. A sick, hollow feeling washed over her.

She saw the host approaching, a plate of canapés in his hand. “Clara? You look a bit pale. Everything alright?” She shook her head, unable to speak, and went back inside.