Gemotions

The roses arrived in a simple brown box, smelling faintly of soil and something else… sadness? He wasn't sure. John, hunched over his morning toast, felt the familiar weight in his chest, making each breath a chore. His apartment, once a sanctuary, now echoed with the hollowness of his own existence.

He opened the box. Crimson roses, perfectly formed, a splash of color against the drab gray of his day. No note. Just the flowers. He’d barely spoken to anyone in days, weeks even.

He picked one up, burying his face in its velvety petals, the scent doing little to alleviate the feeling of being encased, suffocated by an invisible cloak. The thorns pricked his finger, a tiny, insignificant pain, and he almost welcomed it.