Gemotions

He stared at the page, the glossy magazine cover featuring a smiling woman, whose name was not his. Inside, his words, his observations, his very *soul* were published, but attributed to her. Michael’s breath hitched, a shallow, strangled sound. He sat back in his chair, the sudden movement causing the office chair to creak.

He pushed the magazine away, a physical act of rejection that did nothing to alleviate the internal pressure. The office, usually a place of collaboration and buzzing energy, now seemed a vast, empty canyon. He focused on the details: the harsh fluorescent lights, the bland beige walls, the stale air circulating through the vents. All of it felt oppressive.

Later that evening, Michael found himself staring at the front door of his apartment. The key lay in his hand, unused. He couldn't bring himself to go inside, to face the solitude, the echo of his unspoken fury. He lowered himself onto the stoop, the cold concrete seeping into his bones.