Gemotions

A chill settled in Clara's bones, a constant companion these days. The late afternoon sun cast long shadows across the living room, highlighting the dust motes dancing in the air. She sank onto the sofa, the cushions offering little comfort. Her fingers, usually nimble, felt thick and sluggish as she reached for the remote. Liam, her husband, was always the first to reach for the coffee.

She found a notebook tucked beneath the sofa cushions. Its cover was plain, almost apologetic. She opened it and a pang of dread hit her stomach. Scribbled across the first page was the rough outline of a story, a story that used her name for the main character. The character grappled with a chronic lack of energy, the same fight she'd been silently waging. The prose stung her with a familiar weariness, a mirror reflecting her own muted existence.