Gemotions

The gallery buzzed, the champagne flutes clinking like a mocking chorus. The magazine, "featuring the work of Eleanor Blake," was on display. His article. Her article, his words, her thoughts. Now, her life, his achievement, stolen. He tasted bile at the back of his throat, and the room began to spin.

He gripped the edge of a table, fighting to remain upright. The polite smiles, the congratulations, the casual conversation – it all felt like a twisted joke. He wanted to expose the lie, to scream the truth, but the words were trapped in his chest.

He felt the gaze of the other guests, their superficial praise. He excused himself, bumping through the crowd, heading towards the exit. The fresh air outside, he hoped, might offer some relief. His shoulders were slumped.