Gemotions

The weight in his chest was crushing. Ethan stared at the article. The writer he had admired, the writer whose words had shaped his own, was a fraud. The revelation was not just disappointing; it was a personal affront. His hands were now sweating.

He stood, abruptly, his chair scraping against the floor. He paced his small apartment, the silence amplifying the internal storm. He ran his hand through his hair, the gesture rough and impatient. He stopped at the window, staring out at the city.

He wanted to scream. He wanted to rage. He wanted to inflict the same pain. He wanted to hurt them, the ones who had done this. He grabbed the remote and smashed it to the floor. The small act gave him a grim satisfaction. He would figure out the rest later.