Gemotions

The editor's rejection, curt but polite, was pinned to the fridge with a magnet shaped like a smiling sun. It felt utterly wrong; there was nothing sunny about the message. Michael stared at it as he stirred the watery soup on the stove.

The apartment smelled faintly of burnt toast, a testament to his distraction. He hadn't bothered to eat. The radio murmured in the background, a stream of cheerful chatter that felt alien, an intrusion.

He pulled out a chair and sat at the table, the untouched soup congealing in the bowl. The shadows lengthened across the room, the darkness deepening, mirroring the feelings swirling within him. He was tired of this. Tired of himself.