Gemotions

The silence in the apartment was deafening. He had called it “artistic license," the way he’d portrayed her in his book. But to her, it felt like an attack.

She ran her hands across the smooth surface of the kitchen table. The polished wood offered no comfort. Every sentence of the novel echoed in her mind. The fictional version of her was angry, bitter, unlike the person she thought she was.

She could not even look at him. She felt cornered, exposed, and vulnerable. Tears welled up in her eyes. It was a suffocating pressure.