Gemotions

He stared at the blank wall, the email's details a kaleidoscope behind his eyelids. The publisher had deemed his work “unsuitable.” He felt the familiar heat rising in his neck, a flush of shame and something else, a deep-seated inadequacy.

He went to the window and looked out at the street. People were laughing, talking, moving forward. He felt frozen, incapable of participating in the world outside. The manuscript, a collection of words that once held such promise, now felt like a monument to his failure. He was starting to resent the project, the time, the effort, the wasted ambition.

He poured himself a stiff drink, the liquor burning a path down his throat, hoping it might somehow numb the hollowness he felt.