Gemotions

"This can't be correct," she whispered, her fingers tracing the unfamiliar name on the file. Her hands trembled. The medical history was not hers. The file detailed a life filled with activity, a busy calendar and the care of others. Her own life was simple, almost too simple.

She sat in the park. The other people seemed so connected. They talked. They touched. She had never been one for connection. Now, staring at the wrong file, she couldn't remember the last time she'd spoken to someone. She felt a distinct chill, a physical sensation that mirrored the deep coldness in her soul.

Her apartment was her refuge, and her prison. She sat on her sofa. She flipped through the channels on the television, but nothing held her attention. The silence felt like it was pressing in on her. The stranger’s life, a vibrant tapestry of human experience, mocked her.