Gemotions

The email sat in Eleanor’s inbox, a stark white rectangle against the deep blue of her screen. It was from a literary agent. She inhaled deeply, exhaling slowly, and clicked it open. Her heart didn't race; it simply thrummed a gentle rhythm against her ribs. She was ready.

It wasn't good news, of course. The agent confirmed her suspicions. The celebrated author, Miles Kendrick, whose work Eleanor adored, had lifted large sections of her unpublished manuscript. A knot formed in her stomach, but it didn't coil tight. It was more of a gentle pressure.

Eleanor reread the agent's explanation. The firm, formal wording seemed to amplify the betrayal. She swiveled slowly in her chair, her gaze drifting out the window. The rain splattered against the glass, blurring the world. She thought of Miles’s words, the beautiful prose she'd lost herself in, and the echoes of her own words that now seemed to taunt her.

She closed the email, then opened a blank document. She began to write, not with fury, but with a quiet determination. She had a story to tell, and she wasn't ready to let anyone else tell it for her.