Gemotions

He found himself unable to eat. The thought of chewing, of swallowing, of anything going down felt impossible. He stared at the half-eaten plate of pasta, the food congealing and growing cold, an unwelcome symbol of his current stagnation. The news – the damning evidence of his idol’s literary theft – had been a gut punch, leaving a wound that refused to close.

The world seemed to have tilted on its axis. He’d admired, even loved, her work, every sentence, every meticulously crafted paragraph. Now, the stories felt like a mocking echo of his own rejected submissions. He crumpled the newspaper in his hands, the rough paper scraping against his skin.

He sat on the couch, the apartment filled with an oppressive silence. The city outside, normally a comforting backdrop of distant sirens and chatter, was now a source of disquiet. He pulled the blanket tighter around himself, seeking a warmth that eluded him. He was a prisoner in his own home.