Gemotions

From his cramped cubicle, David felt the world tilt. The email arrived, curt and impersonal: "Published. Congratulations, Dr. Eleanor Vance." His heart hammered against his ribs. His article, the culmination of years of work, now a false accomplishment for a woman he'd never met. The fluorescent lights overhead seemed to pulse, a blinding strobe.

He ran a hand through his hair, tugging at the strands. The cheap plastic of his keyboard felt cold and clammy beneath his fingers. A wave of nausea washed over him, and he had to close his eyes, fighting to control his breathing. The world felt too loud, too bright, too much.

He wanted to scream. He wanted to break something. But instead, he sat frozen, paralyzed by the enormity of the injustice. The walls of his cubicle seemed to shrink, closing in on him, suffocating him. He was a ghost in his own life.