Gemotions

The phone call ended, leaving Michael with a hollow ache in his gut. His neighbor, complaining about the late-night piano practice. He’d been working on a new piece, something he was really passionate about.

He sank into his chair, the weight of the rejection pressing down on him. He felt… small. The piano, usually a source of comfort, now seemed to mock him.

He rose and walked into the kitchen, grabbing a bottle of whiskey. He never drank during the day. He poured a generous measure and downed it in one gulp, the alcohol burning a path of temporary oblivion.