Gemotions

A tightness gripped his chest. John, the celebrated novelist, the man whose books filled bookstore shelves, wasn’t a writer at all. He worked as a data entry clerk. He felt a profound sense of… sadness. The weight of his own misjudgment settled on him.

He slammed his fist against his desk. The cheap wood offered little resistance. He had praised John's intelligence, his creativity, his ability to weave worlds. Now, the words felt like an insult to John's silence. He replayed their conversations, looking for the telltale signs he’d missed.

He felt a deep sense of compassion for John, for the loneliness of his secret. He could not stop imagining him stuck at his desk, and his shoulders slumped.