Gemotions

Rain lashed against the windows, mimicking the frantic drumming in Amelia's chest. She’d found it tucked away, a thick manuscript with her name – or a thinly veiled version of it – scrawled across the cover. The protagonist, a woman named Anya, was… well, Anya was *her*. Every mannerism, every sarcastic quip, every insecure habit. A wave of ice slithered through her.

She slammed the laptop shut, the metallic clang echoing in the silence of their shared apartment. He'd been so attentive lately, so *charming*. Now, it all seemed a calculated performance, a meticulous study for his literary project. All those late nights, the whispers, the averted glances when she walked in.

Anya – no, *she* – could almost taste the bile rising in her throat. She needed a drink. Scratch that, she needed several. She grabbed her coat, the fabric suddenly feeling coarse against her skin. The door slammed behind her, a punctuation mark on the end of a sentence she wasn't sure she'd ever finish.