Gemotions

She stared at the chipped mug of lukewarm tea, the floral pattern blurring at the edges. The apartment felt suffocating, each breath a heavy exertion. Outside, the city hummed with a life she couldn't seem to access. It was the third time this week he'd slipped away to answer a call. The whispered voice, the averted gaze – they were like tiny needles pricking at a wound she hadn’t even realized she had.

She picked at a loose thread on the sofa. He returned, whistling a tuneless melody, his face flushed. A new aftershave, she noted, with a sudden, sharp pang. He didn't see the way her shoulders slumped, the way her grip tightened on the worn fabric, the desperate need to scream, the urge to just simply disappear.