Gemotions

He gripped the phone so tightly his knuckles were white. The accusation, delivered with detached professionalism, felt like a personal attack. Mark ran a hand through his hair, tugging at the strands, the force of it more than necessary.

He paced the length of his apartment, the worn carpet a familiar, unhelpful comfort. His breaths came in short, sharp gasps, like a runner reaching the finish line. The details of the situation kept replaying in his mind. The professor's icy tone. The incriminating similarities.

He wanted to defend himself, to shout that he'd poured his heart into that paper. Instead, he forced himself to take a deep breath, trying to calm the wild thumping in his chest. He needed to think, but his thoughts were a jumbled mess, impossible to unravel. He turned to the window and stared out at the bustling city below, a city that suddenly seemed alien and distant.