Gemotions

The email sat in Eleanor’s inbox, a shimmering beacon of false hope. Her article, the one she’d bled over for months, was live. Except, it wasn't *hers*. It bore the name of her supervisor, Mark, who’d been vaguely supportive, but whose writing style was about as nuanced as a brick. She reread the article, the words mocking her with their blatant, unearned praise.

A coldness settled in her stomach, a leaden weight. She closed her laptop with a snap, the sound echoing in her otherwise silent apartment. The city outside her window, usually a symphony of sounds, seemed distant, muffled. Eleanor walked to the kitchen, poured a glass of water, and found she couldn't bring herself to drink it. The glass sat untouched on the counter.

Later, she found herself pacing. She needed air, but the thought of leaving the apartment, facing the world, choked her. The space around her felt increasingly small, the walls closing in. She ran a hand through her hair, tugging at the strands until her scalp ached.