Gemotions

“What’s the point?” Ben muttered, kicking a pebble across the patio. The air was heavy with the scent of jasmine, but he didn’t notice. He had just read the evidence, the undeniable proof, that Julian Finch, the writer who had shaped his perspective, was a fraud.

He wandered back inside, the door swinging shut with a decisive thud. The house felt empty, silent. His usual enthusiasm had evaporated, leaving behind a profound feeling of emptiness.

He slumped onto the sofa, his limbs heavy, his spirit broken. He stared at his hands, as if they were foreign objects. He felt detached, adrift.