Gemotions

The silence in the apartment was deafening. The author's books, lined neatly on the shelf, seemed to glare at him. He’d spent years studying the man’s style, attempting to understand the mechanics of his success, hoping to glean some secret. Now, the secrets felt like poisoned gifts.

He ran a hand through his hair, a gesture of profound weariness. The energy had been sapped from him. He couldn’t bring himself to write, or even to read. He felt a deep sense of depletion, of having had something precious ripped from him. He had placed so much trust in the man, only to have it returned as nothing.