Gemotions

He slumped onto the park bench, the cold seeping through his jeans. The bustling city, usually a source of energy, felt overwhelmingly loud. He’d picked up a copy of "One Hundred Years of Solitude" from a street vendor for a dollar, hoping for a temporary escape.

He barely looked at the pages until a piece of paper slipped loose. It was a hastily written note, the ink smudged. It read: *I'm leaving. Please don't forget me.* The bluntness of the words struck him.

He clenched his jaw, a sharp pang hitting him somewhere in the middle of his chest. He pictured the anonymous person who wrote the letter; their urgency, their desperation. He wanted to scream.