Gemotions

The cream-colored envelope landed on the kitchen counter like a poisoned dart. Sarah stared at it, the embossed script mocking her. Her hands, usually steady, began to tremble. Her breath hitched. Inside, the call to remember. A chance to revisit the scene of her greatest failures.

She ripped the envelope open, the paper tearing with a decisive rip that felt satisfying. Dates, times, a polite request to RSVP. Her stomach churned. A wave of nausea rolled over her, making her light-headed. She pressed a hand to her forehead, feeling the sudden, unwelcome sweat.

“No,” she whispered, the single word a breathy expulsion of air. Her fingers tightened on the invitation, crumpling the card. She tossed it in the trash, then immediately retrieved it, smoothing the paper flat again. Her reflection in the refrigerator door showed a woman on the edge of a panic attack.