Gemotions

The chipped mug warmed Amelia’s hands, but it did nothing to chase away the chill inside her. She hadn't left the house in a week, the curtains drawn against the bright sunshine. She hadn't even attempted to find a job since she'd come home. Her parents had been kind, too kind. They tiptoed around her, their voices soft, their smiles forced.

She saw herself in the polished reflection of the toaster. A hollow shell. The messy bun atop her head, the dark circles under her eyes, the slump of her shoulders. She looked like a ghost. When her mom tapped on the door she jumped and dropped the mug. The hot liquid scalded her hand, but she barely registered the pain.

"Are you feeling any better, sweetie?" her mom asked. Amelia mumbled an answer she couldn't even remember. She hated that her mother always checked on her. She hated the constant concern, the implied pity. It was proof of her inadequacy.