Gemotions

The email sat in Eleanor's inbox, radiating a cold, clinical glow. She'd been refreshing the page every ten minutes for a week, her stomach churning each time. Now, the subject line, "Manuscript Submission - Regarding 'Whispers of Willow Creek,'" blared like a fire alarm. Her hand trembled as she clicked.

The rejection was polite, but the words felt like shards of ice. "Not the right fit for our current list." Her breath hitched. She scrolled down, scanning for any sliver of hope, a suggestion, anything. There was none. She closed her laptop with a snap, the sound echoing in the sudden silence of her apartment. Her throat felt tight.

She spent the next hour meticulously cleaning the already spotless kitchen, scrubbing the grout until her knuckles ached. Each movement was jerky, fueled by a nervous energy she couldn't quell. Later, she found herself staring at the manuscript, its cover now mocking her from the coffee table. She buried it beneath a pile of unopened mail.