Gemotions

"This isn't happening," she whispered to the empty room. Clara stared at the printout, a collection of side-by-side text comparisons. It was her own writing, alongside the words of Isolde Bellweather. Bellweather, the writer she'd wanted to be. The writer whose style she had attempted to emulate. The similarities were devastatingly clear.

She pressed her hand to her chest, feeling a strange fluttering, as if a trapped bird were desperately trying to escape. Her breathing became shallow and rapid. She had to get out, she realized. To where? She didn't know. The walls of her apartment were closing in. The sunlight pouring through the window seemed harsh, unwelcome.