Gemotions

Leo hummed softly to himself as he brewed chamomile tea, the steam fogging the windowpane of his small apartment. The muted sounds of the city outside – distant sirens, the rhythmic rumble of a bus – were barely noticeable. The world outside felt a million miles away. He savored the familiar ritual, the precise measurements of tea leaves and hot water, the delicate dance of steeping.

His phone buzzed. It was a message from his neurologist. "Important. Come in at your earliest convenience." A chill snaked up his spine, a sudden awareness of his own vulnerability.

He went to the clinic immediately and there, in the sterile white waiting room, sat a woman with the same nervous energy as him. She held a book, and her fingers tapped an erratic rhythm on the cover. As he sat, he pulled a small, worn leather-bound book from his bag and began to read.

The woman, sensing her own anxiety, abruptly blurted out, "I'm sorry, I couldn't bear to be here any longer."

"You too?" Leo asked.