Gemotions

The book arrived in the mail, heavy and official-looking. Inside, nestled among other essays of high caliber was hers. A small, black and white printed version of her most vulnerable thoughts, laid bare for the world to scrutinize. Elara traced the glossy cover, the texture smooth beneath her fingertips. There was no argument in her, no desperate pleas.

The afternoon sun, filtering through the blinds, cast stripes across the floor. She sat in the chair she'd been meaning to fix for weeks, the loose threads of the upholstery tickling her legs. She opened the book, her own essay a neat block of text, her voice, now, just another in a chorus.

She imagined the readers, a hazy, indistinct group of faces. It didn’t fill her with dread, or fury. Just a slow, almost pleasant acceptance. A quiet settling.