Gemotions

The rejection letter was a paper cut, a slow bleed. Sarah slammed the document onto the mahogany table, the force rattling the delicate china teacups. She picked up a sugar cube, crushed it in her fist, and tossed the powdered mess into the untouched cup of tea. Disgusting. Just like their note. "Not the right fit," they’d said. *Not the right fit.* She glared at the letter as if it were a venomous snake, ready to strike. The words swam before her eyes.

A coldness gripped her chest, a tightness that made it hard to breathe. Her apartment, once a sanctuary, now felt suffocating. Dust motes danced in the late afternoon sunbeams, each one an irritating reminder of her own perceived inadequacy. The manuscript, her masterpiece, lay discarded on the floor, its pages mocking her.

Her fingers itched to tear it apart, to shred every painstakingly written word. Instead, she rose, walked to the window, and stared down at the bustling city below. It, too, seemed to be laughing at her.