Gemotions

A vein throbbed in Michael’s temple. He re-read the article: "Bestselling Author, Accused of Literary Theft." The name, Anya Petrova, stared back at him, the woman who'd become his literary idol. He'd devoured every one of her books, each story feeling like a personal message. Now, the accusations. Now, *his* story, his unpublished novel, was the source.

His hands clenched into fists, the knuckles turning white. He felt a sharp, piercing pain in his jaw, and immediately realized he was grinding his teeth. He needed to get out. He needed air. He rose and stormed outside, kicking a discarded soda can across the yard. The metallic clang was satisfying.

He walked fast, his strides long and angry. He passed a playground; children were laughing. He hated them. He stopped at a park bench and sat down, staring at the lake. The water seemed dark, reflecting the storm brewing inside him. He wanted to scream. He wanted to break something. He wanted to make *her* understand.