Gemotions

I felt a cold rage when I saw the book, a story of my life crafted by a man named Charles. It was a joke. I sat there at the breakfast table, my stomach a knot of fury.

I wouldn't confront him, wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. I made sure I was always somewhere Charles would see me. In the background of his life. I went to the same coffee shop he frequented. I took the same bus route. I ran the same jogging path.

I became a ghost, a constant reminder of the truth he had failed to capture. He would glance at me, a flicker of irritation crossing his face. I knew I was under his skin.