Gemotions

The email sat in Amelia's inbox, radiating a cold indifference. "Congratulations, the article has been published!" it chirped. Underneath, a name, not hers, was plastered in bold: "Professor Alistair Finch." Amelia slammed her laptop shut, the metallic clang echoing in the otherwise silent apartment. She wanted to scream, to shatter something, but instead she rose and began meticulously cleaning, scrubbing grout lines until her knuckles were raw.

Outside, rain lashed against the window, mirroring the tempest within her. She’d spent months, sleepless nights, pouring her heart and soul into that research. The injustice of it all clawed at her insides. Every time she reached for her phone to call the editor, a knot of fury tightened in her stomach, making her freeze.

Instead, she ignored the phone and decided to bake. She’d always found solace in the methodical rhythm of kneading dough. The more the dough resisted her, the harder she worked, the dough eventually yielding to her will. This feeling of control was something she needed.