Gemotions

The chipped mug warmed Amelia’s hands, but it did little to chase away the chill that had settled deep in her bones. She’d spent the morning staring at the email, the one containing the side-by-side comparisons of her short story and the opening chapter of Silas Blackwood's new novel. The similarities were undeniable. Each sentence a painful echo of her own creativity.

She tossed the manuscript, her magnum opus, onto the floor. The thud was barely audible in the quiet apartment, a small sound against the sudden vastness of her own insignificance. She hadn't left her bed in three days.

The sunlight streamed through the dusty window, illuminating the unmade bed and the scattered remnants of takeout containers. A wave of nausea washed over her. She felt like something had been stolen from her. Her identity.