Gemotions

The leather-bound book felt heavy in Amelia's hands, heavier than its actual weight. The gilt lettering on the cover, "Amelia Thorne: A Life," mocked her. She’d never authorized this. A biography. About her. She flipped through the glossy pages, the crisp sound like a slap. An unfamiliar picture of her as a teenager, posed stiffly in a dress she’d long forgotten, stared back. A wave of nausea rolled through her.

She retreated to her garden, a place of peace, but even the scent of roses seemed diluted, sickly sweet. She sat on the wrought-iron bench, clutching the book so tightly her knuckles were white. Sunlight glinted off the pages, highlighting the perfect prose, the fabricated intimacy. It felt like someone had stolen a piece of her, repackaged it, and sold it to the world.

Her phone buzzed, a journalist asking for comment. Amelia silenced it, the sound grating on her ears. She closed her eyes, the tailored sentences echoing in her mind, and felt a cold emptiness spread through her chest.