Gemotions

Her phone vibrated in her hand, a harsh, insistent pulse against her palm. She almost dropped it, her fingers slick with a sudden sweat that had erupted from nowhere. The email, with its subject line "Your Teenage Confessions," sat accusingly in her inbox. A quick glance at the sender solidified the dread in her stomach – a website she vaguely recalled from a long-forgotten Google search. Her breath hitched in her chest.

She clicked the link, her heart thudding a frantic rhythm against her ribs. The website's garish colours and amateur design seemed to mock her. There it was: her diary, digitized and displayed for the world to see. A shudder ran through her as she recognized the handwriting, each looping letter a familiar condemnation.

She pressed her lips together, feeling a deep nausea rise. Her fingers hovered over the close button. She couldn't look. She had to look. With a trembling hand, she began to scroll, the screen a dizzying blur of words that were once private, now public.