Gemotions

The notification buzzed, a tiny digital mosquito bite on her wrist. A new comment. Eleanor ignored it at first. She was trying to enjoy her evening, the quiet hum of the washing machine a soothing counterpoint to the turmoil brewing inside her. But the buzz came again. And again. Eventually, curiosity, tinged with a corrosive bitterness, won.

She sat at the kitchen table, her jaw set, and clicked on the link. The comments were getting worse. People were dissecting her teenage anxieties, her failed attempts at popularity, the secret crushes she'd penned in ink. She'd poured her heart and soul into that diary, and now, it felt like someone was using it to mock her.

She grabbed a pen and furiously scribbled on a piece of paper, the ink biting into the surface. What was the point? Her teenage self, exposed for all to see, felt like a stranger. The person she had become – the careful, guarded adult she had worked so hard to cultivate – was now threatened, exposed.