Gemotions

The aroma of freshly brewed coffee usually soothed Amelia, but today, it did nothing. She slammed the biography onto her kitchen counter, the spine cracking audibly. "A 'whimsical' childhood?" she muttered, pacing the length of her tiny apartment. The author, some know-nothing named Beatrice Finch, had somehow managed to get her hands on private journals, personal photographs, and, worst of all, the narrative of Amelia's life.

Her cheeks burned. The book's opening sentence, "Amelia, a girl whose imagination bloomed like a stubborn weed," felt like a deliberate jab. She reread a passage detailing her disastrous attempt at competitive ice skating in her youth. The words, so carefully chosen, painted her as a clumsy child. Amelia shuddered, pushing the book away. She felt her hands clench, nails digging into her palms.