Gemotions

The flickering fluorescent lights were doing nothing to soothe the tremor in Amelia's hands. Three hours. It had been three hours trapped with David, and the manufactured cheer in his voice grated on her nerves. He kept asking if she was okay, offering her his water bottle, making small talk about the office potluck. Too eager. Almost manic. She clutched her purse tighter, the worn leather a familiar comfort against her palm.

Every time the elevator groaned, signaling a possible rescue attempt, she flinched. The anticipation was worse than the silence. She watched him, really watched him, every minute movement, every glance around the cramped box. His casual demeanor felt…off. As if he were putting on a performance.

“You haven’t mentioned your wife, David,” she finally blurted out, the question a sharp break in the forced pleasantries. His smile faltered.

He brushed the question aside, quickly changing the topic. But she could see it—the brief flicker of something unreadable in his eyes before he plastered the smile back on. The elevator lurched again, and she felt a prickling sensation crawl up her spine.