Gemotions

The antique shop was filled with the scent of aged paper and forgotten things. Clara trailed behind Michael, her steps slow, her head bowed. The chipped porcelain doll in the display case suddenly seemed impossibly beautiful, and she wished she could be like it, unfeeling and still. The air felt thick, difficult to breathe.

Michael's voice, usually so warm, was now flat. "So, you liked the museum, too?" he asked, his tone clipped.

She wanted to melt into the floor, to become part of the dusty wood. The lie – that she was the only one – weighed on her like a physical burden. She mumbled a response, avoiding his gaze, feeling the flush creep up from her neck.