Gemotions

He paced the length of his cramped apartment, his footsteps a relentless tattoo against the worn floorboards. Sweat slicked his palms, and he rubbed them on his jeans, leaving dark patches. The book lay open on the coffee table, a cruel parody of his existence. He felt his chest constrict, each breath a struggle.

His teeth ground together. The author, a woman he’d vaguely met at a conference, had dissected his failures, his vulnerabilities, his deepest fears, and presented them as a public spectacle. He felt exposed, stripped bare, and the humiliation was a burning, corrosive acid in his gut.

“Liar,” he muttered, his voice hoarse, staring at the page that detailed the breakdown of his marriage. He wanted to break something, to scream, to lash out at the phantom who had stolen his narrative. He wanted to make her understand the depth of her trespass.