Gemotions

The morning sun, usually a welcome guest, felt like a spotlight trained directly on Amelia. She groaned, pulling the covers higher. The email alert had pinged hours ago, but the thought of sitting up, of reading anything beyond the headlines, felt like scaling a mountain. The subject line, “Regarding the Incident at the Bake Sale,” had been enough to send her back under.

Her phone buzzed again. This time it was her mother. “Amelia! Are you up? Did you see the email from Mrs. Gable?” The voice, usually a comforting balm, now grated. Amelia mumbled a response, burying her face in the pillow. Responding felt… arduous.

She knew what the email was about. Ten years. A decade since the Great Cookie Crisis of '14. She'd been a teenager, Mrs. Gable a volunteer parent. The details remained blurry, a hazy recollection of dropped trays and accusations. Facing it all again felt exhausting, like she had already lived a full day. The physical weight of the covers seemed to mirror the mental burden of finally addressing this.