Gemotions

“It can’t be true,” Eloise said, her voice cracking. She had spent the last decade of her life teaching Finch’s work. His words were the bedrock of her lectures, the foundation of her understanding of literature. Now, everything was collapsing.

She sat in the faculty lounge, surrounded by the buzz of conversation. But she was detached, lost in a private, disquieting space. Her hands trembled as she reached for her coffee cup, sloshing the hot liquid over her fingers.

She jumped, then quickly wiped her hand on her jeans. The stain on her jeans barely registered. She felt a sense of disorientation, as though she was no longer sure of what was real.