Gemotions

He’d come to the library for research, a familiar sanctuary of quiet and order. Then, nestled amongst the poetry books, was it. A slim volume, bound in leather, bearing his self-published collection of poems. His *unpublished* collection, actually.

He felt a physical jolt, like he'd been electrocuted. His fingers trembled as he reached for the book. The title, the layout, the very font – all his. He flipped through the pages, each poem a painful private confession. He felt a sudden, profound feeling of exposure.

He looked around, feeling exposed. The librarian, a woman with kind eyes, smiled at him. “A wonderful selection, isn't it? Very moving.”