Gemotions

The steam from the boiling pasta was making Amelia’s face flush, but it wasn't the heat. The words, "a goldfish," had been hanging in the air for hours, a persistent hum of aggravation.

She whirled around, accidentally splashing hot water on her hand. She barely registered the sting.

"We have *no room*," she snapped, her voice sharp and accusatory.

She imagined the tiny bowl, the constant cleaning, the obligation. It felt like another weight, another burden.

She slammed the colander onto the counter, the metal a resounding clang.