Gemotions

"More coffee?" Her mother’s voice was too bright, too insistent. Sarah pushed her plate away, a half-eaten scrambled egg a testament to her lack of appetite. The kitchen, with its brightly colored curtains and the scent of freshly brewed coffee, felt like a cage.

She excused herself and retreated to her old room, now a guest room. The bed was made, the pillows fluffed. Everything was too neat, too pristine, a constant reminder of how she had failed. She slumped onto the edge of the bed.

She didn't speak to them unless she had to. When her father tried to make conversation at dinner, she kept her answers short and clipped. He eventually stopped trying, and the silence in the room grew heavier with each passing meal.