Gemotions

The world felt muted. The vibrant colours of the city, the boisterous sounds of traffic, were all filtered through a veil of…something. He couldn’t quite name it. He sat in the park, the bench cold and hard beneath him. He usually loved this spot, the place he’d meet with Ms. Davies, his writing mentor, to discuss his novels. Now, the trees seemed to cast extra long shadows.

He'd received an email that morning, a brief farewell, devoid of any real personal connection. "I'm leaving. I've left a few recommendations. Good luck." He’d re-read it a dozen times, searching for something, anything, beyond the curt phrasing. The email had felt so cold, so distant. He rubbed his eyes, the image of the email burned into his retinas. The joy he once found in writing seemed to have vanished, replaced by a dull, persistent ache.