Gemotions

"So, you *were* a rebellious teenager?" The voice, laced with saccharine interest, grated on Clara's nerves. The book, thrust into her face by a well-meaning acquaintance, detailed her supposed wild years, filled with fabricated escapades and manufactured angst. She felt a flush creep up her neck. Her hands clenched into fists, the nails digging into her palms. “It’s… exaggerated,” she managed, her voice tight. The entire day had been an exercise in suppressing the urge to scream. She retreated to her room, locking the door behind her, and fell onto the bed, the familiar scent of lavender a poor comfort against the building pressure.