Gemotions

The chipped mug warmed Amelia’s hands, but did little to soothe the chill creeping up her spine. She’d always remembered the treehouse, the rickety stairs, the way the late afternoon sun slanted through the gaps in the wood. A perfect memory. But Liam, over coffee this morning, had described it as a gloomy, damp construction, barely held together. He’d even insisted they’d gotten rained on, soaking the cardboard boxes they’d used for furniture. Amelia rubbed her temples. The air in her kitchen felt suddenly thick, hard to breathe.

She replayed their conversation in her mind, Liam’s casual tone a stark contrast to the churning in her stomach. He’d laughed, calling her memory "rose-tinted." Now, looking at the faded photographs on the wall – a picnic in a field, a blurry shot of them holding ice cream cones – each image felt skewed, as if viewed through a distorted lens.

Amelia went over to the window. Outside, the world seemed overly bright, everything too sharp. She gripped the windowsill, nails digging into the old wood.