Gemotions

Rain lashed against the window of Leo’s cramped apartment. He watched the droplets race each other down the pane, each a tiny, pointless competition mirroring his own life. The radio murmured softly, the news reports blending into the general static of his existence. He hadn't left the house in two days.

A text message pinged. It was from his editor. "Great piece, Mark!" the text read, accompanied by a link. Leo knew the piece. He *wrote* the piece.

His jaw clenched. The link led to an article, beautifully presented, under the name “Mark Peterson.” He slammed his fist on the table, a dull thud, the only sound breaking the rhythmic drumming of the rain. The feeling in his chest was heavy, a dense weight preventing him from breathing normally.