Gemotions

He hadn't eaten. He hadn't wanted to. The thought of feasting on something cheerful and celebratory was offensive, a desecration. He picked at the food on his plate, pushing it around with a fork, the blandness of the meal matching his mood. He watched her.

The room, once a pleasant gathering space, now felt like a prison. The music, a soundtrack to someone else's joy, only amplified his sense of isolation. He wanted to scream.

He excused himself from the table, claiming a need for fresh air. Outside, he lit a cigarette, the smoke a momentary distraction. He stood in the shadows, watching the lights from the building, and the sound of laughter reaching him. It was a torture.