Gemotions

“This can’t be happening,” Maya muttered to herself. She’d been staring at the pastry display at the fancy new cafe downtown for the last fifteen minutes. The “French Kiss Macaron” was, undeniably, her "Sunset Macaron." She’d even painted the same subtle gradient of colours on the shells. It was the recipe she’d used to try and make it as a pastry chef.

She crossed her arms, a habit she resorted to when she was feeling this way. The cafe bustled with customers, oblivious to the fact that they were enjoying a version of her creation. She could see them, laughing, enjoying her work.

She bit her lip, a telltale sign of her distress. She knew this was her creation.

She stepped inside and stood still. The smell of freshly baked pastries usually made her feel happy. Today, she could barely breathe. She felt a wave of cold rush through her, and she felt a burning sensation on her cheeks.