Gemotions

The gala buzzed with hushed whispers. Julian, a struggling playwright, stood frozen, the champagne flute clutched so tightly in his hand it threatened to shatter. He overheard snippets of conversation, phrases echoing in his ears that he knew all too well. They were lines from *his* play, now gracing the stage of a successful, celebrated play by Arthur Finch.

His face burned. He felt a profound sense of violation, as though someone had invaded his private space, violated his very thoughts. He wanted to shout, to confront Finch, to demand an explanation. But he was just Julian, a nobody.

He swallowed hard, the champagne tasting like ash in his mouth. He abruptly turned and pushed his way through the crowd, escaping the suffocating atmosphere of the party. The injustice of it all, the audacity, clawed at his throat.