Gemotions

The listing had been up for three days, and still, Clara refused to click on it. The image, a vibrant, overly-enthusiastic shot of the porch swing, mocked her from the tiny screen of her phone. She knew every crack in that swing, every splinter she'd risked her fingers on. She'd painted it a dozen times, each a different shade of defiance against her mother's preferred pastels. This new, perky turquoise felt like an insult.

Her jaw ached from clenching it. She scrolled through Instagram, pretending to be engrossed in a cat video, but her thumb kept hovering over the notification. She could practically feel the dust motes dancing in the sunbeams that slanted through the living room window. That same sun that used to blind her as she sat at the kitchen table, refusing to finish her vegetables.

Finally, she slammed her phone face down on the table, the small vibration a jarring echo of her internal turmoil. "Not today," she muttered, the words a challenge to the universe.