Gemotions

The book slammed shut, the sound echoing in the sterile waiting room. Amelia’s knuckles were white, clutching the offending tome. Her jaw clenched, a muscle jumping in her cheek. She glared at the cover, her own smiling face staring back at her, a stranger in her own life. A life, apparently, already curated and presented without her say.

She took a deep, shuddering breath, the air tasting thin and wrong. The waiting room, usually a source of bored indifference, now felt like a cage. Every pastel color, every smiling magazine cover, felt like a deliberate taunt. She wanted to rip the glossy pages to shreds, to deface the fabricated narrative that dared to call itself her.

"Excuse me," she spat, her voice tight with suppressed fury, to the disinterested receptionist. "Who authorized this?"