Gemotions

Michael paced his cramped studio apartment, the cheap laminate flooring creaking under his rapid steps. His phone, which he'd been clutching since the "chance" encounter at the coffee shop, vibrated with a message from David. "Hey, up for a drink tonight?" He stared at the screen, mind blank. A drink with David, the "aspiring artist" who was actually a renowned surgeon? The pretense had always been so meticulously crafted.

He remembered the endless hours spent discussing David's "struggles." David, with his genuine concern and sage advice. David, who’d probably been laughing at his naiveté all along. A wave of nausea washed over Michael, the scent of his burnt ramen suddenly repulsive.

His gut twisted. He should have known. He should have seen through the elaborate charade. He felt like a fool, utterly and completely disoriented. He texted back a terse "Can't tonight." Then, he threw his phone onto the couch, the impact a dull thud, and collapsed onto his bed.