Gemotions

The air in the break room felt thick, almost suffocating, as Michael stared at the notice. "Mr. Peterson, your transfer to the janitorial team has been approved." He reread it, each word a hammer blow. He’d meticulously crafted his career in marketing, the sleek presentations, the high-powered pitches… gone. He ran a hand through his hair, finding a strange dryness, like the desert.

He looked at his hands, hands that had only ever known the touch of a keyboard or a meticulously brewed coffee. The thought of mops and buckets, of cleaning up after others, ignited a fire of resentment within him. His chest tightened. He couldn't do it.

He imagined the stares, the whispers. He wouldn't be able to face the people he’d worked with, the people he’d considered colleagues. He felt exposed, stripped of his carefully cultivated persona. His vision swam as he pictured the new uniform, the awkward conversations, the inevitable decline.

He began to feel dizzy. He needed to get out, he had to get out. He had to think of something.