Gemotions

The invitation was tucked between a coupon for dry cleaning and a notice about her overdue library books. Clara held it, turning it over in her hands, her fingers tracing the embossed lettering. It felt alien, wrong. A bitter taste coated her tongue.

She sat heavily on her sofa, the worn cushions sinking under her weight. The afternoon sun, usually welcoming, now felt invasive, highlighting every imperfection in the room, mirroring the imperfections she felt within herself. Her reflection in the darkened television screen showed a stranger.

“I’m not going,” she muttered, her voice barely a whisper. She couldn’t. The thought of seeing *them*, of being judged, of having to… *explain*, was simply unbearable. She tossed the invitation onto the coffee table and buried her face in her hands.