Gemotions

John paced the length of the living room, his jaw tight. The manuscript lay open on the coffee table, a cruel caricature of his existence. He’d found it by accident, a hidden file cleverly disguised. *She,* the fictionalized version of Sarah, was a manipulative shrew.

He kicked the coffee table, the wood groaning in protest. He wanted to break something, to shatter the smug satisfaction he imagined on her face as she typed each deceitful word. His knuckles ached, itching to connect with something solid.

"What a joke," he snarled, the words escaping his lips like venom. He wouldn't confront her. Not yet. First, he needed to compose himself. But the fire inside him refused to be quelled.