Gemotions

The publisher’s reply was a curt rejection, the phrases about "marketability" and "editorial direction" feeling like blows to the chest. Thomas slumped against the counter, the letter sliding from his nerveless fingers. He stared at the chipped paint, the mundane ugliness of his kitchen suddenly overwhelming.

He ran a hand through his hair, tugging at the strands. The muscles in his neck were tight, a knot of tension that refused to loosen. His stomach churned with a nauseating emptiness.

He went through the motions of making coffee, the routine offering no solace. Each sip tasted like ash. He spent the rest of the day in a stupor, replaying every line of the manuscript, searching for the flaw that led to this devastation.