Gemotions

The morning sun felt heavy on Eleanor's eyelids. It was supposed to be a good day. She'd finally gotten the coffee machine working again. But as she scrolled through her emails, a leaden weight settled in her stomach. The subject line: "Farewell, Pasta Paradise."

She leaned back in her chair, the sudden stillness a stark contrast to the usual clatter of the office. Her shoulders slumped. Pasta Paradise. It was where she went every Friday, the comforting rhythm of ordering the same thing, the same booth, the same waiter. The email continued, detailing the reason – rising rent, dwindling customers. Eleanor’s fingertips traced the worn edge of her desk.

The office felt too bright, too loud. She needed air. The thought of lunch, which she usually anticipated with glee, now brought a sense of obligation, not joy. Maybe she’d skip it. Or maybe, she'd have one last plate of spaghetti.