Gemotions

The clatter of the teacup on the saucer was deafening in the sudden quiet. Amelia’s hands trembled, the fine china almost slipping from her grasp. Her mother’s words hung in the air, a thick, suffocating fog. *Becoming Buddhist*. Amelia’s carefully constructed world, built on Sunday dinners and Christmas carols, felt like it was fracturing.

She excused herself, muttering something about needing air. Outside, the familiar scent of roses from her father’s garden usually soothed her. Tonight, it felt cloying, a false sweetness. The sunlight felt harsh against her face, too bright, too intense. She took a deep breath, trying to steady herself. Her chest felt constricted.