Gemotions

The cheap motel room smelled of stale cigarettes and defeat. Amelia sat on the edge of the bed, the chipped paint on the wall mirroring the cracks in her composure. Across from her, a woman she'd only met an hour ago, but already felt a kinship with—a shared sense of betrayal, which was a bitter comfort.

She couldn’t look at the framed photo of him on the bedside table. *Him*. The thought burned. The other woman, Chloe, had a similar photo, she knew. She’d seen it on *his* phone. The betrayal felt like a physical weight, pressing down on her chest.

Amelia’s fingers drummed a frantic rhythm against her thigh. "Did he… did he ever mention *me*?" The question was a whisper, a plea for validation of her own experience, of her own pain. Chloe’s hesitant nod was a spark of gasoline on a roaring fire.