Gemotions

The sunlight seemed too bright, assaulting her eyes. She leaned back in her chair, the leather squeaking in protest. Her breath hitched in her chest. The editor's words echoed in her mind: “...not quite the right fit...”

The words swam before her, blurring with the tears she was desperately trying to hold back. She had poured her heart into this novel, sacrificing sleep, relationships, sanity. And for what? She gripped the edge of the desk, knuckles white.

She felt a tremor run through her, a physical manifestation of the despair that threatened to engulf her. She reached for the phone, the motion slow and deliberate, the familiar plastic feeling foreign against her palm. She needed to hear a friendly voice, any voice, to anchor her to reality.