Gemotions

The patent application confirmation sat on Amelia's desk, a small white rectangle of pure, unadulterated poison. She snatched it up, crumpling it into a tight ball. Her knuckles were white. The air in her small workshop felt thick, suffocating. Someone had stolen her idea, the automatic self-watering planter she'd poured her heart and soul into.

"Unbelievable," she muttered, pacing. The blueprints, usually a source of comfort, now felt like a mocking reminder. She slammed her fist onto the workbench, scattering metal shavings. The injustice of it all, the audacity of the copycat, churned in her stomach.

The phone rang, and she snatched it up, hoping for a distraction, a friendly voice. "Hello?" she barked, her voice tight. It was her mother, and Amelia struggled to keep the tremor out of her voice. She quickly ended the call, the polite conversation feeling alien in this moment of raw fury.