Gemotions

He stared at the book, spine cracked open to a page emblazoned with his own words. A cold trickle snaked down his spine. The glossy paper felt slick and wrong beneath his trembling fingertips.

The library was suddenly too quiet. Every rustle of a page, every whispered conversation, seemed amplified, each sound directed at him. His heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic drumbeat in the sudden stillness. He wanted to flee.

He closed the book, slammed it shut, and shoved it back on the shelf. The action was clumsy, hasty. He ran, not bothering to look back, and didn't stop until he reached the relative safety of the deserted music practice room. He closed the door, leaned against it, and inhaled a shaky breath.

He pulled out his phone, re-reading the email. The congratulatory tone felt like a mockery. He wished he had never written the damn thing.