Gemotions

A vein throbbed in Michael’s temple. The phone felt like a molten weight in his hand as he stared at the voicemail notification. "Congratulations, Liam," the automated voice had chirped, its blandness a direct insult. He tossed the phone onto the worn couch, the device bouncing off the cushion and landing on its side.

He balled his hands into fists. The knuckles were white. Liam. Always Liam. He could practically hear Liam’s booming laughter, the way he'd probably buttered up the hiring manager with his effortless charisma. He felt a bitter taste in his mouth.

He stood up so quickly that his chair tipped over with a loud thud. He began to stalk around his living room, muttering under his breath, a growing heat radiating from his chest. Why did Liam always have everything handed to him? Why couldn't he ever win?