Gemotions

"So, you’re telling me," Mark began, his voice flat, "that the words I wrote, that I *labored* over, aren't actually mine?" He leaned back in the uncomfortable plastic chair, arms crossed tightly. He had spent hours in the library, hunched over books, the information his own.

The professor, a woman with a perpetually stern expression, nodded slowly. Her tone was carefully neutral as she explained the alleged similarities between Mark's essay and a published article. Mark felt his temperature rise, a prickling heat spreading across his neck.

He felt the pressure rising in his chest. His hands clenched into fists at his side. He wanted to shout, to demand answers, but the words caught in his throat. He just couldn't comprehend how a mistake like this had even been made.