Gemotions

The smell of burnt toast hung heavy in the air. The tiny kitchen felt even smaller than it had before. Amelia watched her father fumble with the toaster, his face creased with what she interpreted as self-pity.

"You're making a mess," she said, her voice sharp. She hated the way he moved now, slow and hesitant.

He flinched. "Sorry, dear. I… I just wanted to make you breakfast." The offer felt like a pathetic plea.

She shoved past him, grabbing a banana. Each movement felt constricted, each word a carefully controlled weapon. She walked out of the kitchen as quickly as possible. The walls of this house were closing in on her.