Gemotions

Dust motes danced in the late afternoon sunbeam that sliced across the living room. Sarah sat cross-legged on the floor, the glossy pages of "Successful College Essays" spread before her. Her fingers, calloused from years of typing, traced the familiar shape of a paragraph. A flush crept up her neck as she recognized the opening line: "The scent of burnt caramel clung to the air, a familiar aroma that always heralded…" It was hers. Or, at least, it *had* been hers.

She ran a hand through her hair, a nervous gesture she hadn't realized she still employed. The essay, her carefully crafted words about baking with her grandmother, now existed as a perfectly formatted example for aspiring students. A pang, a bittersweet ache, settled in her chest. She remembered the late nights, the rewrites, the feeling of pouring her entire self onto the page.

Her gaze drifted out the window, past the manicured lawn to the sprawling oak tree she used to climb as a child. The world felt smaller, somehow. The scent of brewing coffee from the kitchen seemed to transport her back to a simpler time, when the biggest worry was a burnt batch of cookies.