Gemotions

The hum of the refrigerator was the only sound in the otherwise silent apartment. Amelia sat at the dining table, the manuscript spread before her. It was a novel written by her wife, Susan. The story, written in Susan's familiar prose, was filled with veiled criticisms, thinly disguised frustrations, and a character who was a cruel amalgamation of her own worst traits. A knot of unease twisted in Amelia's stomach.

She tapped her fingers on the table, a nervous habit. Her shoulders hunched. The details were accurate – the way she hoarded old newspapers, the way she left her clothes strewn across the floor. But the emotion was false. The bitterness seemed to overwhelm the love.

Amelia pushed away from the table, a sudden wave of anger washing over her. She knew Susan was a private person, and that she would not be willing to discuss any of the hidden details. She stood up and walked to the door.