Gemotions

The fluorescent lights of the accounting department hummed, a relentless drone that mirrored the thrum in Eleanor's chest. She stared at the spreadsheet, the numbers blurring, each cell a tiny, suffocating box. Across the room, Mark whistled, a chirpy, irritating sound. She wished he'd just *stop*.

She needed air. Excusing herself, she fled to the break room, the stale coffee smell a small mercy. Pouring a cup, she watched the steam curl up, disappearing into the oppressive, low ceiling. Why couldn't she just… disappear too?

“Hey, Eleanor,” Mark said from the doorway. "Remember Camp Clearwater? Did you ever do the ropes course? I was terrified!"

She froze, the plastic cup cold against her hand. Clearwater. It had been an eternity ago. She mumbled something about not remembering, her heart hammering.