Gemotions

The vase sat on the dining table, a stark reminder of the unspoken. He’d come home to them, a bouquet of something… *too*. Too bright, too vibrant, too perfumed. He hadn't asked for these. He wasn't *expecting* these.

He circled the table cautiously, avoiding direct eye contact with the floral display. A headache began to throb behind his eyes. He poured himself a glass of water, trying to ignore the way the air seemed thick and heavy with the sugary aroma.

His appetite vanished. He pushed the untouched plate of food away. He found himself staring at the flowers, a slow rage building in his chest. What did it *mean*?