Gemotions

He ran a hand through his hair, the gesture a nervous tic he hadn’t noticed before. The Dean’s office – a place he’d envisioned as a source of pride – now felt like a suffocating pressure cooker. The information, delivered with polite regret, was a blow to his carefully constructed future. His vision seemed to tunnel; everything around him narrowing to the details of his own plight. His gut churned with a strange mix of fury and fear. He felt an intense need to *do* something, to lash out, to fix the injustice. He gripped the edge of the mahogany desk, knuckles white, and asked, "How could this possibly have happened?" his voice barely a rasp.