Gemotions

The email sat in Amelia’s inbox, a digital serpent coiled and ready to strike. It was from a journalist, a name she recognized from a prominent literary magazine. The subject line, “Concerning Elias Thorne,” already clutched at her chest. She found herself unable to click it, the cursor hovering like a hesitant hummingbird. Her hands felt clammy, slick against the cool plastic of her mouse. She took a deep, shaky breath, trying to dispel the prickling unease that had settled in her stomach.

She got up and paced her small apartment, the worn rug offering little comfort beneath her shuffling feet. Sunlight streamed through the window, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air, but she couldn’t focus on the mundane beauty of the scene. Elias Thorne. Her literary hero. The man whose words had guided her through her own darkest times.

The phone rang, its sudden shrillness making her jump. She hesitated, then snatched it up. It was her mother, chirping about something trivial. Amelia found herself snapping, her voice tight and unfamiliar. “I’m busy, Mom,” she mumbled, and hung up, feeling a fresh wave of agitation wash over her.