Gemotions

The magazine article sat on the coffee table, a glossy testament to her past. "Ten Inspiring Admissions Essays," the headline screamed. Her essay, "The Mathematics of Grief," was prominently featured. She didn't want to read it. She *couldn't* read it. It was like seeing her naked soul printed across the page.

Her partner, oblivious, was reading the article aloud, praising her eloquence. She found herself snapping at him, cutting him off mid-sentence. His brow furrowed with confusion. She didn't want him to read it, to validate it. She didn’t want anyone to see it. It was her pain.

She excused herself and went to the garden, needing air. The fresh, damp soil felt grounding, a release compared to the weight in her chest. The memory of writing the essay, the long nights, the tears, felt distant, and yet, unbearably present. It was hers, and she hated that it wasn’t just hers anymore.