Gemotions

The apartment felt stifling, the air thick with unspoken words. The sunlight, usually a welcome guest, now seemed to mock his unease, highlighting every dust mote floating in the air. He stood at the kitchen counter, fiddling with a piece of toast, unable to bring himself to eat. He’d stumbled upon the novel last night, tucked under the mattress, a secret world painted in her familiar handwriting.

He walked through the apartment, each room now a gallery of his own portrayal. The way she had seen him, the story she had woven, made him feel exposed and stripped bare. He found himself avoiding eye contact, even with the cat, a vague sense of shame prickling at the back of his neck.

The thought of her coming home, of having to face her, filled him with a curious dread. He wanted to escape, to run far away from this house, from this life she had so intimately documented. He poured the cereal down the sink, the dry crunch echoing in the sudden silence.