Gemotions

The microwave hummed, a sound that always grated on Eleanor's nerves. She’d spent five years meticulously curating her own life, choosing every scent, every piece of furniture, and now, here she was, reheating leftovers in her parents’ kitchen. It felt like a demotion.

She slammed the plate down on the counter, the force making the ceramic shiver. Her mother, bless her heart, had already set the table, a perfectly symmetrical tableau of plates and cutlery. Eleanor wanted to scream.

"Everything alright, dear?" her mother asked, her voice as smooth and cloying as melted butter. Eleanor forced a smile. "Just peachy," she replied, the sarcasm practically dripping from her words. She knew her mother saw right through it.