Gemotions

The tiny, cramped apartment felt like a cage. Sunlight, a cruel intruder, streamed through the window, highlighting the dust motes dancing in the air. He’d been cooped up for days, avoiding calls, avoiding people. He had needed this specific, first edition of Hemingway. He'd been searching for it for years. Now, it was just another disappointment.

He tore at the spine of the book, frustrated by its resistance. He needed to *do* something, anything, to release the tension that coiled in his gut.

A slip of paper fell out. He picked it up, barely able to read the rushed, frantic handwriting.

*I still dream of you.* He crumpled the note, threw it at the wall, and screamed.