Gemotions

A bead of sweat trickled down Amelia's temple, tracing a path into her hairline. The fluorescent lights of the support group meeting buzzed, amplifying every little sound. She tugged at the hem of her oversized sweater, hoping to disappear within its folds. Around her, people shared their stories of living with Chromatic Dysmorphia, a condition that twisted perception of color. Amelia clutched her coffee cup, the ceramic cool against her clammy palms. She'd been diagnosed three years ago, yet still struggled with the idea of others knowing.

The woman across the table, her face illuminated by the harsh overhead glare, began to describe her struggles with greens. Amelia’s stomach twisted. She’d always struggled with green. The thought of admitting her own struggle felt like a betrayal. A woman’s story of struggling to distinguish the green in traffic lights made Amelia swallow hard. She busied herself with stirring her coffee, avoiding eye contact with anyone.

A new voice cut through the discussion. “It’s like…the world’s just a bit…wrong sometimes, you know?” The voice belonged to a man with tired eyes and a hesitant smile.

Amelia looked up, a flicker of something she couldn't name—recognition, perhaps—in her chest.