Gemotions

The flickering departure board was a taunt. Amelia clawed at the damp collar of her shirt, the fabric twisting into a suffocating knot. Her hands were ice, despite the airport’s stuffy heat. She ran a hand through her already disheveled hair, the gesture frantic, useless. The wedding. It was all she could think about. Her best friend, Sarah, waiting, likely now wondering where she was. She should be there, not trapped in this concrete prison. “They said it would be an hour,” she muttered to herself, the words catching in her throat like shards of glass. An hour had become three.