Gemotions

The email sat, unread, in her inbox. A pulsing, digital heart against the vast expanse of her screen. She'd been staring at it for hours, the cursor a mocking blink. Finally, with a sigh that felt like the escape of all her air, she clicked. The words blurred; each sentence a tiny, sharp shard. The editor's carefully crafted politeness was a razor.

Her apartment felt too small, the walls closing in. She paced the worn rug, a familiar path of despair etched in its threads. She went to the window, the city lights below a cruel, shimmering imitation of the stars she’d woven into her manuscript. She could barely taste the stale air when she opened the window.

She found herself, much later, huddled under the duvet, the laptop a cold, indifferent presence at the foot of the bed. The silence was deafening, amplified by the absence of the creative buzz that had filled her life for so long.