Gemotions

The flickering candlelight did little to dispel the shadows in her lonely apartment. She picked up the book, a tattered biography of a forgotten artist, from the table. She wanted to feel something, anything, other than emptiness.

A faded letter slipped out. It was addressed to a woman named Clara, full of passion and longing. The artist wrote of his devotion, of a life shared, of a love that filled his days. She felt a burning sensation in her throat.

She knew she would never feel like this. She knew that any relationship she had would always be doomed. She looked at her empty hands, at the dusty book, and wanted to hurl it across the room.