Gemotions

A wave of nausea washed over Mark. He reread the accusations, the accusations against his hero, Silas Thorne. The blog post, accompanied by side-by-side comparisons of Thorne’s lauded novel and Mark’s unpublished manuscript, left him reeling. It was like someone had punched him in the stomach. He'd poured his heart, his soul, into his writing, dreaming of one day earning Thorne's level of recognition.

He slammed his laptop shut, the metallic click echoing in the sudden silence of his apartment. His vision swam. He needed air. He threw open the window, gulping down deep breaths. The city sounds, the distant sirens and car horns, usually a comforting backdrop, now grated on his nerves.

He paced his small living space, his legs moving with a restless energy he couldn't control. He kept muttering, "It can't be true." The words felt hollow, a feeble attempt to ward off the inescapable truth.