Gemotions

"This can't be happening," Frank muttered, the words barely audible. The paper felt like a lead weight in his hand. He’d meticulously budgeted, carefully planned. How had he gotten here?

He paced the confines of his apartment, each step echoing the desperation building inside. He ran his hands through his thinning hair, a gesture of helplessness. The furniture, the books, everything he owned now felt contaminated, imbued with the sense of loss.

He went to the window, the city lights a distant, indifferent glow. He felt a deep, abiding despair, a sense of crushing defeat. He pressed his forehead against the cool glass, hoping the cold might offer some measure of relief.