Gemotions

The salt-and-vinegar chips crunched loudly in her ears, but Clara didn't taste them. She was sprawled on her sofa, the open book lying discarded on her stomach, a dog-eared copy of "Whispers of the Wild," the Carver Reed novel that had captivated her. The accusations felt like a physical blow. She felt a profound weariness.

She’d spent the day trying to immerse herself in other things. She’d tried a puzzle, its bright colours meant to engage, but the pieces felt shapeless and meaningless. She’d turned on music, hoping to get lost in the melodies, but the notes sounded thin and faraway.

Her own writing, usually a source of comfort, felt tainted. The ideas she had, the creative fire that had once burned so brightly, now felt cold and ashen. She wanted to scream. She stared out the window, at the grey sky, and felt no connection to the world around her.