Gemotions

The plate of untouched pasta sat cold on the kitchen table, a stark reminder. Amelia propped her chin on her hand, her elbow resting on the tablecloth. The air in the room felt thick and still. The aroma of garlic and basil, usually a source of comfort, now seemed cloying. The words of the ballet instructor were ringing in her ears. *Perhaps next year.*

She pushed the food around the plate with her fork, the clinking sound echoing in the otherwise quiet house. Each rotation felt like a small, insignificant movement, a futile effort to change something unchangeable. Her eyelids felt heavy.

She closed her eyes for a moment, letting the darkness swallow her. It did little to ease the feeling of emptiness that had settled in her core. Slowly, she opened her eyes again, the world still there, unchanged, unyielding.