Gemotions

The rejection letter felt heavier than the manuscript itself, a physical weight pressing down on her chest. She crumpled it in her fist, the sharp edges of the paper digging into her palm. Sunlight streamed through the window, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air, but all she saw was the stark black text against the white. “Not the right fit for our list,” it had coldly stated. She wanted to scream, to lash out, but instead, she just sat, still as a statue, the balled-up paper in her hand.

Her apartment, usually a haven of creativity and warmth, now felt like a sterile prison cell. The half-written novel on her desk seemed to sneer at her. She couldn’t even bring herself to look at it. She pushed her chair back, the screech echoing in the sudden quiet, and walked to the kitchen, aimlessly opening and closing cabinets.

The tap dripped, a slow, relentless *plink* *plink* *plink* that seemed to amplify the silence. She stared at the water, a glassy sheen reflecting her own defeated expression.