Gemotions

"It's just one review," his sous chef, Marco, said, his voice hesitant. "They don't know everything."

Chef Isabella just shrugged, her shoulders slumped. The kitchen, once a symphony of clanging pots and sharp commands, felt muffled. She stood by the pass, watching Marco meticulously plate a dish. Every movement felt like a monumental effort.

A coldness had settled in her bones, a chill that no amount of heat could dispel. Her appetite had vanished completely. The once familiar scents of garlic and herbs were now just… smells.

She picked at a loose thread on her apron, her gaze fixed on the floor. Her mind kept replaying the critic's words, each one a stinging slap. Later, she would have to face the staff, face the whispers. She felt a profound weariness, a desire to simply disappear.