Gemotions

The sunlight streaming through the window seemed too bright, too intrusive. Amelia stared at the vibrant roses, their velvety petals a stark contrast to the stark white of her kitchen table. The doorbell had rung, a jarring sound that fractured the quiet morning. Now, the flowers sat there, a riddle wrapped in cellophane.

She knew one thing: she hadn't ordered them. A tremor ran through her. She ran through every interaction of the last week: a missed connection at the coffee shop, the overly attentive waiter at the Italian restaurant, the strange man who kept staring at her in the supermarket.

She paced the length of the kitchen, her hands clasped tightly. The air in the room felt thick, heavy with unspoken questions. She picked up a single rose, its stem cold against her palm. She squeezed it a little too hard, and a petal fell to the table.