Gemotions

The attic air hung thick and dusty, catching in Clara's throat. She coughed, pulling the aged manuscript closer to her face. A tremor ran through her, making the paper rustle. The handwriting – undeniably, irrefutably – was Michael's. It was the way he looped his ‘g’s, the slant of his ‘e’s. Her stomach churned. This wasn't a sweet poem, a little note. This was a whole damn novel, and she was the main character.

Her pulse hammered against her ribs as she read the opening sentence. The protagonist, a woman with hair just like hers, stared out at a rainy London street. Already, she felt a prickle of unease. It was the specificity of it all that made her uneasy. He'd been watching her. He knew her, or at least, he thought he did.

She felt a sudden urge to flee, to be anywhere but here, confronting this hidden facet of her partner. She quickly turned another page, searching for a clue, a sign of what lay ahead. The description of the protagonist's favourite coffee shop made her skin crawl.