Gemotions

The rejection letter felt thin, flimsy, a mockery of the thick, heavy paper her manuscript had been printed on. Sarah crumpled it, the edges biting into her palm. She tossed it onto the overflowing recycling bin, then immediately regretted it. She picked the letter back up, smoothing the creases. The words blurred, just as they had when she first read them. She set it on the table, where it would sit as a physical reminder of her failure.

The apartment was silent, save for the rhythmic tick of the grandfather clock her grandmother had left her. Its steady beat was somehow more grating than comforting. Sarah poured a glass of wine, the ruby liquid sloshing over the rim. She didn't bother to wipe it up.

She scrolled through her phone, the endless stream of carefully curated lives on social media felt suffocating. Everyone was celebrating milestones, sharing laughter, traveling the world. She closed the app, the screen reflecting her own tired face back at her. Dinner was a single, wilted salad eaten directly from the container.