Gemotions

The restaurant was buzzing with the dinner rush, but Chef Isabella felt utterly alone. She stared at the review tucked in her apron pocket, the paper crumpled from her tight grip. Her heart hammered in her chest, a frantic drumbeat against the silence of her internal world. The critic had called her risotto "a watery mess," a phrase that stung like a physical blow.

She tried to project an air of composure as she checked on the tables, but every smile felt brittle, every greeting a struggle. She barely tasted the food she sampled, her appetite completely gone. The aroma of garlic and herbs, usually a comfort, now felt like a taunt.

Later, in her tiny office, she sat with her head in her hands, her shoulders shaking with a silent sob.