Gemotions

The paper, still warm from the printer, felt like a branding iron in her palm. Forty-seven percent. Her stomach lurched. The classroom around her seemed to shrink, the students' chatter transforming into a meaningless, buzzing static.

She pushed back her chair, scraping against the linoleum floor. The movement was jerky, almost violent. She needed air, space. The door handle felt cold, rough against her skin as she wrenched it open and escaped into the corridor.

Her palms began to tingle. She kept repeating the numbers in her head. Forty-seven. Forty-seven. Like a mantra.