Gemotions

The invitation sat on the kitchen counter, a pristine white rectangle mocking Amelia with its cheerful font. She stared at it, the fluorescent light above buzzing in sympathy with the tremor starting in her hands. The party was in two weeks. Two weeks to prepare a speech. Two weeks to feign enthusiasm.

Amelia sighed, a gust of air that barely ruffled the crumbs on her plate. She picked at a piece of dry toast, the blandness mirroring the taste in her mouth. Her father, retiring after forty years, deserved celebration. But she…well, she was just tired.

She imagined the party: the forced smiles, the platitudes, the inevitably blurry photos. It felt like another obligation, another box to check. She pushed the invitation across the counter with a finger. Time to think about what to say. Not that it mattered.