Gemotions

The invitation sat on the kitchen counter, still propped open beside the vase of wilting lilies. Amelia reached for it, her fingers brushing the glossy cardstock. It felt heavy in her hand, a burden she hadn't anticipated. She smoothed the crease where it had been folded, the gesture slow and deliberate.

A wave of emptiness washed over her as she reread the meticulously planned schedule. The venue, the caterer, the DJ – all now rendered obsolete. She let out a sigh that barely ruffled the air. A single tear traced a lonely path down her cheek.

She shuffled to the kettle and filled it, careful not to spill a drop. The silence of the apartment seemed to amplify the clatter of the lid. A cup of chamomile tea, she decided, would do nicely. It always did.