Gemotions

The email sat in Amelia’s inbox, a stark white rectangle against the grey of the screen. Her fingers, usually nimble on the keyboard, fumbled as she clicked it open. There it was: “Congratulations on your publication!” Only, the name attached to the article wasn't hers. It was Bartholomew Finch, a man she’d never met, let alone collaborated with. A coldness crept up her spine, leaving her hands trembling. She reread the email, her chest tightening. A vein throbbed in her temple.

Amelia slammed the laptop shut. The click echoed in her tiny apartment. She paced the length of her living room, her steps quick and agitated, a caged animal sensing danger. The coffee table, usually a welcoming space for books, seemed to mock her with its emptiness. She grabbed her keys, abandoning the half-eaten sandwich on the counter. She needed to *do* something.

She stormed out, the slam of the door a violent punctuation mark. The elevator ride felt agonizingly slow. Outside, the city roared, its usual sounds suddenly amplified, grating. She needed to breathe, to understand. Finch… who even *was* he?