Gemotions

The dim light of the apartment barely pierced the gloom. Another day, another struggle. He stared at his phone, the screen reflecting his own weary face. He'd been meaning to text his therapist, Dr. Ramirez, about the persistent feeling of emptiness. Instead, his thumb fumbled, and the message – a simple, "I feel like I'm drowning" – was sent to... his ex-wife, Sarah.

His stomach clenched. He quickly typed a retraction, then deleted it. What was the point? She probably wouldn't care. He considered calling her but then pictured her face, and his resolve crumbled. He let the phone fall onto his chest, the digital glow doing little to lift the heavy weight pressing down on him.

Hours crawled by. The silence of the apartment felt deafening. He made a weak attempt at making dinner, but the process felt like scaling a mountain. The food tasted like ash. After barely eating, he went to bed, and the darkness offered a semblance of peace, a brief reprieve from the overwhelming weariness.