Gemotions

The steam from the kettle clouded the kitchen window, mirroring the haze in Clara's mind. Mark had been acting… off. Ever since that company retreat. He'd mumble excuses to go outside, always clutching his phone. She'd caught him, just now, whispering into it in the hallway. Clara squeezed the tea bag between her fingers, the paper threatening to tear.

He strode into the kitchen, whistling a jaunty tune. "Morning, sunshine!" he chirped, oblivious. Her stomach churned. The cheerful façade felt like a slap in the face. She plastered on a smile, a grotesque imitation of her usual self. "Morning," she croaked, the word barely audible.

"What's that you're brewing?" he asked, grabbing a cereal box. His hand brushed against hers, and she flinched. The casual contact felt foreign, unwelcome. She watched him, his back to her, and a cold dread seeped into her bones.