Gemotions

"Just a form letter," she muttered, tossing the envelope onto the cluttered desk. The rejection felt less like a criticism and more like a disconnect, a sign she was on a different planet to everyone else. The manuscript had poured from her, a year of her life’s essence poured onto paper. Now, it sat, orphaned.

The house felt cavernous. She walked from room to room, the dust motes dancing in the afternoon sunlight. Her hand brushed against the spines of her favorite books, but she couldn’t bear to open one. It was all a hollow echo.

She made a cup of tea and let it grow cold. The silence was deafening, amplified by the ticking of the clock. She kept staring at the tea; what was the point? She knew the answer. There wasn't one.