Gemotions

The book arrived in a glossy package, a bold title emblazoned across the cover: *The Accidental Architect: The Life of Elias Thorne*. He almost threw it in the recycling bin. Who was this Elias Thorne? Then he saw the grainy picture on the back – him, aged twenty, squinting into the sun. A cold fist clenched in his gut.

He slammed the book down on the kitchen table. His tea, forgotten, grew cold in its mug. The audacity of it! He hadn't spoken to a journalist in years, let alone authorized a biography. He marched to the window, pulling the curtains shut against the morning light. The world seemed to mock him with its indifference.

Elias began to pace. Every detail, every carefully curated anecdote, felt like a violation. He pictured the author, some stranger, poring over his life, dissecting it for public consumption. His hands felt clammy. He wanted to scream, to tear the book apart, but a strange, suffocating lethargy held him back.