Gemotions

He stared out the window, the city lights blurring through the rain-streaked glass. The email, the confirmation of the publication, was a lie. His article, his analysis of international trade, was attributed to someone else.

He ran a hand through his hair, mussing it. A tightness constricted his chest, making it difficult to breathe. He needed air, but the windows were sealed. The world was spinning.

He reached for the bottle of whiskey on the counter, then quickly pulled his hand away. He couldn't. Not now. He spun around, clenching his fists. He felt so exposed, so vulnerable.