Gemotions

I knew the review was coming, but the words still landed like a physical blow. "Formulaic… devoid of soul." The critic’s pen had stripped me bare. My restaurant, once a vibrant hub, now felt like a mausoleum. The familiar buzz of the kitchen had morphed into a relentless drone.

I walked through the dining room, my heart sinking. I watched the happy people enjoying their meal. I felt like a fraud. I had lost the joy of cooking. Each dish I prepared felt heavy, a burden.

I stared at the menu, the same words, the same dishes. I was not producing food. I was pushing product. I wondered if I could ever escape this place.