Gemotions

The floral curtains were closed. The smell of potpourri, a scent she had always found cloying, permeated the air. The house felt like a museum of her past. She had to walk through every room of her past. Her mother had put a fresh tablecloth on the dining room table, a relic of better times.

She sat opposite her father, who was attempting small talk. Her foot tapped a restless rhythm on the floor. It was all a bit too much. The forced smiles, the carefully curated domesticity. She just needed to be left alone.

She stared down at the untouched plate in front of her.