Gemotions

The cream-colored envelope felt heavy in Amelia's hand. It wasn't the weight of the paper, but a dragging sensation in her chest that made it seem so. She didn't want to open it. She knew what was inside. She knew who sent it. Her stomach twisted into a knot, and she crumpled the invitation, tossing it onto the overflowing pile of bills on her kitchen counter. It sat there, a white flag of surrender to the past she thought she'd buried.

The afternoon sun, usually a welcome guest in her kitchen, seemed to mock her with its brightness. She grabbed a mug and filled it with lukewarm coffee, the taste of stale grounds doing nothing to soothe the tremor in her hands. The thought of seeing *them* – of seeing *him* – sent a chill through her, making her pull her cardigan tighter.

She wandered aimlessly through her small apartment, a single tear tracing a path down her cheek. Each room held a memory, a phantom echo of laughter and youthful dreams that now felt like shards of glass under her feet. She stared at a photograph of herself and her friends, the vibrant colors of their youth a painful contrast to the muted hues of her present.