Gemotions

"He's writing about me," I muttered, the words tasting bitter on my tongue. I sat on the edge of the sofa, the manuscript clutched in my sweaty hands. The discovery had unraveled me, shredding the comfortable fabric of our life.

My eyes darted around the room, as if searching for an escape. Every object, every piece of furniture, seemed to hold a secret, a hidden meaning that I was only now beginning to grasp. I suddenly felt like I was an actor in a play I hadn't read the script for.

I pushed myself to my feet, my legs wobbly. I had to get away, to clear my head. I walked to the door and quickly pulled it open, then closed it again. I opened it again and went outside, the cool night air hitting my face.