Gemotions

The hallway smelled like potpourri and something else, something vaguely floral and aggressively artificial. Amelia kept her hands stuffed in her pockets as she walked, a nervous habit she’d picked up again, apparently. The faded floral wallpaper seemed to lean in, judging. It was the same wallpaper that had been there since she was a teenager. Everything was the same. Or, maybe *she* was the one who had changed. She fumbled with the key, a familiar cold weight in her palm.

Her mom, Carol, was in the kitchen, humming a tune Amelia didn't recognize. The countertops gleamed, suspiciously spotless. Carol looked up, smiled, and then it was as if she deflated, her smile wavering at the sight of Amelia’s tired face.

“You’re home, honey,” Carol said, her voice softer than usual. “Dinner’s almost ready. Spaghetti.”

Amelia nodded, a small, jerky movement. She managed a weak, “Okay.” The word felt lost, inadequate.