Gemotions

The coffee tasted like dirt. Amelia stared at the swirling brown liquid, the steam doing little to warm her chilled hands. Her research notes lay scattered around her, a chaotic mess mirroring the jumble in her head. Professor Davies' email, the one announcing his departure, was still open on her laptop screen, its sterile black font mocking her with the weight of its news. The seminar on post-structuralist critiques of space was now a pointless exercise. She pushed the cup away, the sudden silence of the library a heavy blanket. The deadline for her proposal loomed, a monstrous shadow she couldn't seem to shake.