Gemotions

He stared at the rejection letter, the elegant script of the publisher’s letterhead mocking his aspirations. The glossy paper felt cold against his clammy palms. He ran a hand through his hair, dislodging the careful arrangement of gel. He tossed the manuscript onto the coffee table, a small act of frustrated rebellion.

The world seemed muted, the colors faded. The vibrant hues of his paintings, usually so appealing, now seemed garish, the studio a cage. He went into the kitchen, a cavernous space normally teeming with the aroma of coffee, but today the air was heavy with unspoken disappointment. He stood there, unmoving, until the kettle whistled, shrill and grating.

“I thought it was good enough,” he muttered to the empty room, the words catching in his throat.