Gemotions

He stared at the handwritten list, the cheap pen ink smudged in places. It was tucked inside a worn copy of "Moby Dick" he kept on his nightstand. He’d never known Maya to be a reader of classics, let alone the type to make a list. “Ride a motorcycle.” “Travel to Japan.” “Write a novel.” A wave of nausea washed over him.

His knuckles were white as he gripped the book. He kept seeing her face, the way she would smile when she came home from work. Now he could only see the list, the stark, simple words.

He turned and nearly knocked over the lamp. He swallowed hard and sat on the edge of the bed. The silence of the room, usually comforting, pressed down on him.