Gemotions

"I'm sorry, Mr. Petrov, but we need you to move to first chair. Your violin just isn't... meshing with the principal section." The conductor’s words hung in the air, heavy and dismissive. The blood drained from his face. The music room, usually a sanctuary of sound, felt stifling. He clenched his fists so tightly his knuckles turned white.

He felt the hot flush rise in his neck, the pounding in his temples. Years of practice, of striving, reduced to this? He wanted to scream. Instead, he simply nodded, his throat constricted, and turned, feeling a tremor run through him as he gathered his things.