Gemotions

Clara stared at the yacht. It bobbed gently in the harbor, a sleek, white behemoth. And Mrs. Davies, who she'd shared coffee with every Tuesday at the local café, *owned* it. Mrs. Davies, who had always complained about the price of lattes. Clara swayed slightly, the image of that vast, expensive vessel burning into her retinas.

She felt a dizzying emptiness in her stomach. The color had drained from her face, leaving her feeling cold and clammy. Every single conversation, every shared complaint, now seemed laced with a silent, mocking laughter. She hadn’t slept in 48 hours. She couldn't eat.

Her mind raced, cycling through scenarios, imagining the parties, the trips, the life she now understood she'd been utterly excluded from. She wrapped her arms around herself, trying to find some semblance of control, but she felt as if she was about to spin away into the void.