Gemotions

Eliza stared at the front door, the bell silent. Each chime felt like a judgment, an impending announcement of failure. She kept fiddling with the apron strings, the rough fabric a tactile anchor in the swirling anxiety. Her stomach churned, a knot of unease twisting tighter with every passing second. The critic’s words, "lacking innovation, devoid of passion," still stung. She wondered if she should have hired a bodyguard. The small staff inside moved with nervous energy, their faces tight with concern. Every rustle of a menu, every whispered conversation felt like an accusation.