Gemotions

“Just leave them there,” she croaked, her voice barely a whisper. Maya gestured weakly toward the door. The florist, oblivious, was already backing away. Roses. Red, perfect roses. But no name. Her breath hitched. She hadn't even eaten today. The silence was becoming a physical burden. He knew. He should know. She should have heard something by now. She slowly pushed herself off the sofa and shuffled towards the flowers, her legs trembling. She was utterly alone, adrift in a sea of despair.