Gemotions

“Explain this, Mr. Henderson,” the professor stated, his voice devoid of warmth. James felt his face flush, a burning heat creeping up his neck. The paper, laid out on the desk between them, felt like a branding iron.

He’d been so focused on success, on proving himself. He’d cut corners, convinced himself it was just a small oversight, a harmless deviation. He hadn’t meant for it to become this. He ran a hand through his hair, the gesture somehow not enough to ground himself.

He attempted to articulate his defense, but the words caught in his throat. Every argument felt weak, every justification sounded like a pathetic excuse. He felt the familiar pull of shame, an internal condemnation that echoed the professor’s disapproval.