Gemotions

The fluorescent lights of the office seemed to hum a discordant tune, a sound that drilled into Amelia’s skull. She stared at the spreadsheet, the numbers blurring, refusing to coalesce into any meaningful pattern. Her coffee had long gone cold, yet she’d automatically refilled it twice. This morning’s presentation felt like a lifetime ago, a memory both hazy and overwhelmingly present.

"Amelia? You okay?" Mark’s voice startled her. He was standing in the doorway, a mug in his hand.

She blinked, focusing on him. His face seemed familiar, the shape of his eyes, the way his hair flopped across his forehead. A strange pressure built behind her eyes. "Yeah, fine. Just… a bit bogged down."

He chuckled, then looked down at his own mug. "Remember Camp Clearwater? The 'bogged down' feeling was practically an Olympic sport there." He took a sip.

Amelia’s breath hitched. Clearwater? A jumble of images – a mosquito net, a muddy field, a particular chipped ceramic mug – flashed across her mind. She felt a sudden, inexplicable urge to flee.