Gemotions

He ran a hand through his thinning hair, the gesture clumsy and slow. He’d known, of course. He’d *felt* it, that familiar sinking sensation, even before he’d opened the email. The carefully crafted prose, the years of work poured into it— all for naught. Again.

He rose from the desk, his legs protesting the sudden movement. The kitchen, usually his refuge, offered no solace today. The sink was piled high with dirty dishes, a testament to his neglect. He glanced at the calendar; another week, another deadline looming. Everything felt impossible, a mountain he couldn't even begin to climb.

"Coffee," he muttered, the word a rasp in his dry throat. As he turned to the counter, he bumped into the table, and the half-empty water glass tipped over, splashing all over the floor. He just stood there, staring at the spreading puddle, unable to muster the strength to reach for a towel.