Gemotions

He had always admired the lyrical prose of Eleanor Vance. Her stories had been his escape, her words a balm for his loneliness. Now, the official documents lay before him, a stark contrast between his short story and her latest published novel. Each carefully chosen word, each turn of phrase, echoed his work. His mouth moved, but no sound came out.

He felt the blood drain from his face, leaving him pale and clammy. His chest felt constricted, as if a weight had settled upon it. This wasn't just plagiarism; it was a violation of the trust he had placed in her work. He clutched his chest.

He rose from his chair, a sudden need to move, to escape the suffocating weight of the truth. He wandered aimlessly, the words swimming before his eyes. The world seemed to spin.