Gemotions

“You wrote what?” I asked, my voice barely a whisper. The words felt foreign on my tongue, the air between us suddenly charged with a tension I could cut with a knife. Sarah hadn't even looked up from the novel on the table when I came into the room. It was about us.

My chest constricted, a feeling I couldn't ignore. The scenes were familiar, yet distorted, painted with colors I didn't recognize. The "I" in the story was a mess, selfish and shallow.

I wanted to scream, to lash out, but instead, I felt a deep, chilling emptiness. I turned to walk away, a heavy feeling I couldn't explain holding me down.