Gemotions

The manuscript was tucked neatly in the drawer of her bedside table. He must have thought she wouldn’t find it. He’d clearly underestimated her. She examined the crisp, white pages, the perfect binding. A calculated performance, as far as she was concerned.

She’d spent the morning cleaning, meticulously, scrubbing every surface until they gleamed. Each wipe, each spray of cleaning solution, a silent act of defiance. The world felt too bright, too loud. It felt claustrophobic.

When he tried to embrace her later, she stiffened, a cold wave washing over her. "Don't," she said, pushing him away. "You've written enough about me."