Gemotions

The sterile white of her apartment seemed to amplify the silence. Maya stared at the screen, the evidence of Clara Blackwood's duplicity laid bare: side-by-side comparisons of Blackwood’s work and lesser-known authors. A tightness constricted her throat, each stolen word a personal betrayal. She’d built her world around Blackwood’s novels.

She felt a hollowness where a connection once existed. Every evening, she’d curl up on the couch, lost in Blackwood’s worlds, but now, the stories felt soiled. The comfort, the escape, were gone. She tried to picture herself in the future. The lack of companionship made this very difficult.

Maya switched off the computer, the sudden darkness swallowing the room. The apartment was still, each item a silent witness to her solitude. She wrapped her arms around herself, seeking a warmth that was not there.