Gemotions

The wilting roses sat on the chipped kitchen table, their vibrant red already fading to a dull, bruised hue. Amelia stared at them, her fingers tracing the delicate curve of a drooping petal. They were beautiful, undoubtedly, a splash of colour against the drabness of her rented flat. But they were also a mystery. No card. No sender. Just a silent, floral enigma.

A sigh escaped her, a puff of warm air that seemed to carry the weight of the last few weeks. She hadn't left the house much. The job hunt was a wasteland, each rejection email a fresh wound. She felt a knot tighten in her stomach, a familiar sensation when the bills piled up and the hope felt thin. She reached for the kettle, the movement slow and heavy, the joy of a hot drink extinguished.

Maybe, she thought, it was a mistake. Maybe there was no point in even applying for that copywriting job. Maybe she should just give up and go home. Her hand trembled as she poured the water, the steam blurring the already hazy view through the kitchen window.