Gemotions

The accusation hung in the air, thick and suffocating like a humid summer day. Sarah’s hands clenched into fists, nails digging into her palms. Her carefully crafted essay, the product of weeks of research and late nights fuelled by lukewarm coffee, was being scrutinized as if it were a counterfeit bill.

Mr. Peterson, his face a mask of professional neutrality, continued to speak, citing specific sentences, highlighting passages. Heat crawled up Sarah's neck, prickling her skin. She stared at the worn wooden desk, the grain suddenly fascinating, anything to avoid meeting the man's gaze.

“The similarities are… notable,” Mr. Peterson was saying. Sarah felt a strange tremor, a violent twitch in her left eyelid. She wanted to scream, to defend her work, but the words caught in her throat, strangled by a wave of disbelief.