Gemotions

“This is… unusual,” I mumbled to myself. The digital pages of Mark's novel were glaring at me. It was all there, the apartment, our routines, and… me, rendered in intricate detail.

I’d always known he was a writer, always encouraged him, but I never expected this. I felt a prickle of discomfort, and my smile felt glued on, artificial. The characters, obviously inspired by us, seemed like distortions, exaggerations, caricatures.

The apartment felt different, the familiar objects now laden with meaning, as though they too were privy to a secret I wasn’t. I stood up abruptly, a sudden need for fresh air taking hold. I went to the kitchen and made myself a cup of tea, my hands shaking.