Gemotions

The cheap beer tasted like ash in Michael's mouth. He stared at the article on his phone, the familiar words now a stranger's achievement. He had spent weeks in the library, poring over research, crafting the perfect narrative. The bar buzzed around him, a cacophony of laughter and chatter, none of which touched him. He felt disconnected, like a ghost observing the living. His shoulders slumped, and he took another long swig of the bitter liquid, the disappointment a heavy stone in his gut. The television blared a game he didn't care about, a reflection of his own apathy.