Gemotions

The email sat in Amelia’s inbox, a digital serpent coiling around her stomach. It was from the literary agent, the subject line a curt “RE: Your Concerns.” Amelia clicked it open, heart thudding against her ribs. The agent, while attempting to be soothing, confirmed what the online sleuths had unearthed: some sections of Alistair Finch's new novel bore a suspicious resemblance to Amelia's unpublished short story, “The Whispering Pines.” She slammed the laptop shut, the metallic clang echoing in the otherwise silent apartment. The coffee she'd made that morning sat untouched on the counter, growing cold.

Amelia’s fingers fumbled for her phone. She scrolled through Finch's Twitter feed, the curated images of him, smiling and gracious at book signings, felt like a deliberate taunt. She’d always admired him, devoured his books, even modeled her own writing style after his. Now, the weight of that admiration, that emulation, felt like a cruel joke.

She threw the phone onto the couch, the impact making a small cloud of dust rise into the air. She needed to *do* something. Pace. Vent. Shout. Instead, she stared out the window at the bleak November sky, feeling a strange hollowness inside.