Gemotions

"Well, that's just fantastic," muttered Clara, her voice tight. She reread the rejection letter for the fifth time, each word a tiny needle pricking her already raw nerves. The pristine white of the page seemed to mock the hours she'd poured into the novel.

She slammed the letter down on the kitchen table, scattering crumbs from her untouched breakfast. Her stomach churned, a physical manifestation of her internal unrest. She grabbed a dish towel and, with unnecessary force, began scrubbing at a spot on the counter, polishing the surface until it gleamed.

The rhythmic scrubbing offered a small release, a way to channel her upset. But with each swipe, the disappointment remained, a heavy weight pressing down on her chest.