Gemotions

The faded, spiral-bound notebook lay open on the coffee table, a testament to long-forgotten ambition. Sunlight, fractured by the blinds, dappled the pages, illuminating a neat, spidery hand. My fingers traced the words, “See the Northern Lights.” A wave of… something… washed over me. A gentle softening. I felt no urge to change the setting on the air conditioner, even though a warm breeze stirred the curtains. I just settled further into the sofa cushions, my muscles already molded to its form, and began to read.

"Learn to speak French," the next entry stated. I'd always thought, in a vague, abstract way, that it might be interesting. But the notion now seemed distant, like a dream from a life I didn't entirely inhabit. I smoothed the worn paper. It occurred to me that I'd never seen her truly *want* to do any of these things. It was a peculiar sensation, like witnessing a stranger's aspirations.