Gemotions

"Is this some kind of joke?" Leo's voice was barely above a whisper, though it vibrated with suppressed force. He held the printed pages in his trembling hands, the ink smudging under his sweaty palms. He’d found them tucked away in a drawer, the title, "My Dearest Eleanor," promising a love story that was, in reality, a scathing dissection of their life together.

He looked at Eleanor. She sat across the table, oblivious, sipping her tea. He wanted to throw the pages at her, to scream, to lash out. He wanted to know how she could be so deceptive.

He took a shaky breath. "Did you… did you write this?" The question hung in the air, heavy and laden with unspoken accusations. He watched her, a hawk watching its prey, waiting for her reaction. He could feel his pulse throbbing in his temples.