Gemotions

The shrill ringing of the doorbell shattered the fragile quiet. It was Mrs. Peterson, her face a mask of disapproval. The noise complaint in her hand. “I’m trying to relax,” she snapped. Amelia mumbled a barely audible apology. A wave of shame and unease washed over her.

Back inside, she sank onto her bed. The afternoon had become a hollow shell, devoid of color. The books piled on her nightstand seemed to mock her. She felt a profound sense of isolation, a disconnect from everything.

She picked up her phone, then put it back down. No calls to make. No one to call.