Gemotions

The email sat in Eleanor’s inbox, glowing with a malevolent light. *Your article has been published.* Below, the author's name: David Miller. She’d spent weeks, pouring her soul into that piece on the forgotten history of Victorian street performers. Now, David Miller? Her fingers, usually deft, fumbled as she tried to click the link.

Her chest felt tight, like a band was constricting her ribs. The article was there, her words, her research, her carefully crafted prose – attributed to someone else. She blinked, the room suddenly seeming too bright, too loud. Why hadn't they contacted her?

"David Miller," she muttered, the name a bitter taste on her tongue. It felt wrong, everything felt off-kilter. She ran a hand through her hair, a frantic gesture. The chair creaked as she pushed herself away from her desk, needing air, needing… something.