Gemotions

The letter felt strangely heavy in her hand. The childish handwriting, so meticulously formed, now seemed cloying and insincere. She remembered the rage that had fueled its creation. The feeling, now, was something akin to annoyance.

She sat in the armchair, the letter spread across her lap. *I hope you are well,* the opening line read. She snorted, a sharp, dismissive sound. The young person who wrote this, filled with such manufactured sentimentality, was a stranger.

She skimmed the page, her eyes scanning the words without really seeing them. She wanted it to be over. She folded the letter with a sharp snap, then cast a look at the fireplace. It should be burned, she thought.