Gemotions

A wave of heat washed over Michael as he stood at the bus stop, the flowers – a cluster of deep red roses – clutched tightly in his hand. The city hummed around him, a cacophony of sirens and chattering voices, but he felt distant, detached. It felt as if he was watching a movie of his own life.

He'd been expecting a text, a call, anything. But his phone remained stubbornly silent. He didn't know the sender. Perhaps it was a mistake? His gut twisted in a knot of confusion. A chill wind cut through his thin jacket, a physical manifestation of the coldness creeping into his heart.

He eventually ended up leaving them on the window sill in the sun, where the roses eventually began to wither.