Gemotions

The antique music box, her grandmother's, sat gleaming on the dusty table. Aunt Carol, her voice like sandpaper, was trying to explain its “monetary value.” Amelia’s jaw clenched. The scent of lavender, usually comforting, was now a nauseating perfume. She gripped the worn armrests of the chair, knuckles white.

"It's just… a thing," Carol continued, waving a dismissive hand. Amelia wanted to hurl something, anything, at that perfectly manicured fingernail. Her pulse hammered against her ribs, a frantic bird trapped in a cage.

“I’m not interested.” The words felt like they were being forced out, thick and heavy. The air in the room felt thick with unspoken resentments.