Gemotions

The email sat in the inbox, mocking him. "Congratulations! Your essay, 'The Unfolding of a Stone,' has been selected for publication as a model response." He slammed his laptop shut with a force that rattled the cheap desk. The essay! The one where he'd poured his heart out, or so he’d thought back then. Now, reading it felt like viewing a stranger’s private diary. He'd never intended anyone to see it again. He stalked to the window, staring at the rain-streaked glass. It was a perfectly dreadful day, mirroring his mood.

He picked up the phone, considered calling his mother, then slammed it back down. The urge to argue, to disagree with everything, clawed at him. He knew she'd be thrilled. Proud. He took a deep breath, the air thick with the unspoken. He could practically hear her voice, praising him, telling him how clever he was. He was done. Done being clever.

The thought of even *looking* at the published essay made him want to scream. He imagined it, perfectly formatted, with a glossy cover and a quote from some academic he despised. He felt a familiar heat rise in his chest. A simmering refusal, a stubborn refusal to share his vulnerable self.