Gemotions

The small, cluttered bookstore offered a deceptive sense of peace. Clara’s breath caught in her throat as she scrolled through the website, her diary entries laid bare. The words, once a refuge, now felt like poisoned arrows. She had poured her heart into those pages, and now, that vulnerability was a commodity. The scent of old paper and leather, usually a comfort, felt suffocating. She clutched a worn copy of *Wuthering Heights*, a book that once offered solace, to her chest, as if trying to hold herself together.