Gemotions

The rejection letter, crisp and sterile, sat on her kitchen table like a tombstone. Amelia stared at it, the words blurring through unshed tears. She'd poured her heart, her soul, into that manuscript. Hours bled into days, fueled by caffeine and a desperate hope. Now, all that remained was this impersonal form, declaring her efforts inadequate. She pushed her chair back, the scrape of the legs echoing in the suddenly cavernous room. Her appetite evaporated; even the thought of making a cup of tea felt like an insurmountable task. The day stretched before her, an empty canvas devoid of any purpose.