Gemotions

The smell of burnt marshmallow wafted from Michael's desk, and Sarah could almost taste the acrid smoke of the campfire. "Remember the ghost stories?" he asked, beaming. The nerve! Sarah’s hands tightened around her pen. She'd spent every night at Camp Skylark convinced a monster was going to eat her.

"Vividly," she replied, her voice clipped. Michael was always so sunny, so unflappable. He had no clue how hard it had been for her, struggling with homesickness and fear. He probably never felt a single moment of doubt.

He launched into a story about a practical joke, and the corners of his eyes crinkled with mirth. Sarah, fighting to maintain her composure, nodded slowly, the corners of her mouth twitching. She wanted to smash that damn marshmallow statue.