Gemotions

"Should we try the emergency phone?" Mark, ever the optimist, chirped. Amelia glared at him. The man's relentless cheerfulness grated on her nerves, especially now. The elevator, stuck between floors, felt like a metal coffin.

She crossed her arms, a familiar gesture that she'd used since she was a child. The building's shoddy maintenance was a constant source of frustration, something she frequently pointed out. Now, this. She refused to give them the satisfaction of showing fear. Or, worse, needing help.

Mark, now clearly becoming restless, started pacing the small space. She turned away, staring at the numbers above the doors, counting them in her head. She would not crack. She would not budge.