Gemotions

Chef Astrid usually reveled in the morning prep, the quiet solitude of the kitchen a balm to her soul. But today, the familiar space felt alien, the gleaming surfaces reflecting her own bleak mood. She had read the review at dawn, her face freezing as the words sunk in. The critic had dismissed her acclaimed pastries as “cloyingly sweet and utterly predictable.”

She moved through the motions of the morning, mechanically measuring flour and kneading dough. Her hands felt clumsy, her movements sluggish. She kept dropping things, the clatter of dropped utensils echoing around her. The familiar scent of baking bread, usually comforting, was now overwhelming, almost nauseating.

She avoided looking at her reflection. She couldn't bear to see her face.