Gemotions

The soggy cardboard box, already ripped and collapsing, sat discarded in the alley. A deflated balloon, emblazoned with a garish, glittery "Happy Birthday!" bobbed listlessly in the gutter. He kicked at it, the plastic yielding with a pathetic squeak. The thought of all the effort, the planning, the sheer *glee* with which he had anticipated this evening, curdled in his stomach. A sour taste coated his tongue.

He jammed his hands into his pockets, the gesture tight and aggressive. The email, so innocently titled "Party Update," burned in his memory. Cancelled. Because of *what*, exactly? A vague, unspecific "scheduling conflict." The audacity!

He spat on the pavement. The streetlights cast elongated, distorted shadows that seemed to mock his frustration. He imagined their faces – the meticulously chosen guest list, each one carefully curated for their presumed surprise – as they blissfully went about their evening, oblivious to his… *absence*. He scoffed, a short, sharp bark of disbelief. They wouldn't even *care*.