Gemotions

"Just another Tuesday," Sarah muttered, picking at the crust of the store-bought quiche. The edges were burnt, the filling bland. She’d tried to eat it, but the flavor was somehow… wrong. She had, in the past, made a quiche that she considered perfect. A savory, creamy concoction that brought her joy. She’d always shared it with her friends.

That same feeling of perfection, however, had disappeared along with them. Looking at a popular cookbook, she saw a recipe: "Chef Camille's Classic Quiche Lorraine." It was hers, right down to the precise amount of nutmeg she’d always used. The accompanying article spoke of Camille's “genius”, her “innovative” take on a classic.

Sarah's fingers traced the image, her hand lingering on the perfect golden crust. She felt a sharp, cutting ache in her chest. She pushed the quiche away, a bitter taste in her mouth, and stared out the window. The gray sky mirrored the emptiness inside her.