Gemotions

The manuscript lay open on the coffee table, a stark white rectangle in the dim morning light. Sarah felt a peculiar tightness in her chest, a grasping sensation. The protagonist, a woman named "Seraphina," bore a striking resemblance to herself – the same unruly auburn hair, the same tendency to chew on her lip when concentrating, and, most disturbingly, the same anxieties about money.

She skimmed the pages, her fingers drumming a frantic rhythm against her thigh. Seraphina’s job, a lowly assistant at a publishing house, was described in excruciating detail. The rent, the bills, the constant worry about making ends meet – it was all there, laid bare. A flush crept up Sarah's neck. "He's making fun of me," she muttered, her voice barely a whisper. The idea that her struggles were now fodder for entertainment ignited a fury within her, a desire to hoard the truth, to own it.

The ending, she realized, was terrible. Seraphina, in the novel, got a raise, enough to get her out of debt, but was still unhappy. Sarah ripped the manuscript in half. It was hers to destroy.