Gemotions

"You… you wrote a book about me?" I managed to croak out, my voice barely a whisper. The manuscript, printed out and bound, lay on the coffee table between us. I couldn’t look at him. My eyes were glued to the intricate cover design, a cartoon version of… me.

His response was a shrug, a nervous fidget. I stared at his hands, watching his fingers nervously tap the table. My own hands began to tremble. Why hadn’t he told me? What had he written?

I felt my heart race. I wanted to scream, to run. Instead, I just sat there, frozen, the weight of his secret pressing down on me. I felt as if the room began to spin.