Gemotions

"They called it 'An Unfinished Portrait,'" David muttered, flipping the book over in his hands. It was a handsome volume, the cover sleek and professional. Inside, it was a chronicle of his life, or, rather, a version of it. A version he had not written, a version he did not recognise.

He sat on the park bench, watching children play, their laughter grating against his nerves. He felt exposed, stripped bare. Each anecdote, each observation, felt like a judgment, a pronouncement. He’d lived his life for himself, and now it was being filtered, shaped, and sold.

He closed the book with a snap, the sound sharp against the gentle breeze. He wanted to scream. He wanted to destroy it. He wanted to disappear. He gripped the edge of the book, his knuckles white against the dark cover. The feeling was a heavy weight on him.