Gemotions

He’d known, of course. David, the pompous, silver-tongued David, had charmed the editor with his "connections." And now, here was the physical manifestation of David's ambition: the front page of the magazine, her painstakingly researched piece on urban renewal, credited to *him*. A bitter taste coated her tongue, like stale coffee.

She crumpled the magazine in her fist, the glossy paper crinkling under the pressure. The air in her office, usually a sanctuary of focused work, felt suffocating. The sunlight streaming through the window seemed to mock her with its brightness. She found herself snapping at her colleagues, their innocent chatter grating on her nerves.

That evening, she cancelled her plans, ordering takeout and drowning herself in hours of mindless television. The flickering screen offered a momentary distraction, but the hollow feeling in her chest remained, heavy and unyielding. The pizza tasted like ash.