Gemotions

Eliza was a whirlwind. She couldn't sit still, her leg bouncing under the table during the breakfast meeting, she found herself interrupting everyone. The air in the room felt thick, oppressive, suffocating. She needed to *do* something, *anything*.

That afternoon, she found herself wandering the bookstore, a place she usually loved, but today it felt like a cage. Every aisle felt too narrow, the shelves pressing in. She grabbed a random book, a biography, the cover gleaming. She flipped it open, and her breath caught. It was her.

The details, the anecdotes, they were all her. But she hadn't written them. The woman who had written it had spoken to everyone she knew, had pieced together a portrait of her life and motivations that felt utterly, alienly, *complete*. Eliza wanted to scream.