Gemotions

The email sat in Eleanor’s inbox, a stark white rectangle against the gentle gradient of her morning. She'd been so excited, practically vibrating with glee when she'd woken up. Now, her breakfast, a meticulously prepared fruit salad, looked unappetizing. She jabbed at the screen with a trembling finger, clicking on the article that revealed the accusations against Alistair Finch. Her stomach lurched.

A wave of heat flushed her cheeks. She felt a prickling sensation across her skin, as if a thousand tiny insects were crawling there. She pushed herself away from her desk, the chair scraping sharply against the hardwood floor. The pristine, organized chaos of her workspace, normally a source of comfort, now felt oppressive. She needed air.

Outside, the late morning sun felt less like a warm embrace and more like a condemning stare. She paced the length of her small patio, her hands clenched into fists. The words of the article replayed in her mind, each sentence a hammer blow to her carefully constructed world.