Gemotions

The aroma of freshly brewed coffee, usually a comfort, soured in Amelia’s nostrils. Mr. Henderson, with his too-bright smile and perfectly manicured lawn, stood at her door. His request—a perfectly reasonable one, she admitted – about the overhanging oak, felt like a deliberate intrusion.

"It's just getting a bit… messy," he’d said, gesturing towards the tree's leafy canopy. Amelia, however, found its mess a source of pride, a defiant statement against the sterile perfection he craved. A knot formed in her stomach, tightening with each polite, well-meaning sentence he uttered.

She crossed her arms, the movement sharp and decisive. "I like the shade," she finally replied, her voice flat, refusing to meet his gaze. A small smile flickered at the corners of her mouth, fueled by the rising tension.