Gemotions

He stared at the blank screen, the cursor blinking, mocking his paralysis. He had to respond. The biography, a lurid recounting of his life, was gaining traction. A cold sweat beaded on his forehead. The story’s author had to be some sort of madman. The book detailed his childhood, his relationships, his deepest insecurities.

He ran a hand through his hair, his fingers tangling. The room, usually a haven, felt like a cage. He pressed his face into his hands, trying to calm the racing thoughts, the rising panic. He felt suffocated, trapped within the narrative, unable to control his own story any longer. He felt as though the world was closing in.