Gemotions

The book, a spiral-bound notebook, was open on the kitchen counter. Michael's handwriting filled the pages, dissecting everything about Emily – her laugh, her quirks, her flaws. She felt a coldness wash over her, a chill that had nothing to do with the thermostat.

She closed the notebook, the sound sharp in the quiet kitchen. He was probably downstairs, waiting. Waiting for her reaction. He'd written a character named "Emily," casting her as a neurotic control freak.

She would not go downstairs. She wouldn't give him the pleasure. She’d make coffee, even though she wasn't particularly thirsty. She’d make toast, even though she wasn't very hungry. She'd call her mother, and talk about the weather. Anything to avoid the confrontation. He could wait, trapped in his self-made prison of words.