Gemotions

The ramen noodles sat congealing in the bowl, untouched. Sarah stared at them, the steam having long since faded. Her fingers traced the rim of the ceramic, a mindless habit. Sunlight streamed through the window, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air, but she couldn't bring herself to care. Everything felt muted, as if she were viewing the world through a thick, cloudy lens. She knew she should eat, she knew she had a class in two hours, but the thought of doing anything felt impossibly heavy.

A crumpled page lay on her desk, the one she’d been writing in the morning, which was usually her favorite time. Now, the words felt like a betrayal. She’d found it, the journal, open, on her roommate’s bed. A casual glance had revealed a highlighted passage—her own words, intimate and raw. Her stomach churned with a mixture of shame and anger.

The door creaked open, and Emily strolled in, oblivious. "Hey, you haven't touched your food," she chirped. The question hung in the air, a tiny, annoying gnat.