Gemotions

The university’s alumni newsletter had arrived, as usual, in a thick, glossy envelope. Sarah had been looking forward to it, a small moment of pride in her own successes. But the joy died in her throat as she saw it – her essay. Under a bold title, "Finding Your Voice: An Example," her words, her painfully earnest words about her love of baking, blazed across the page.

Her fingers trembled as she read the opening paragraph. The way she had written about her grandmother, the smell of cookies wafting through the kitchen, felt like a breach of privacy. Her heart pounded in her chest. She wanted to shred the newsletter, to erase it from existence.

She glanced around her apartment. She felt exposed, as if her neighbors could suddenly see the private parts of her soul. She imagined her old high school classmates reading it, laughing at her passion for something so… mundane.

Sarah's face was flushed. She felt a burning sensation in her stomach. She ripped the newsletter in half, then again, and again, until it was just scraps of paper. Then she started at the pieces, her breath coming in short gasps.