Gemotions

The antique shop owner had practically forced the book on her, calling it a "charming little volume." Clara had bought it out of politeness, really. Now, holding the slim volume of poetry, a tiny, perfectly preserved letter fell free. It was addressed to "My Dearest Elias," a lover of the past.

She read the words, the sweet, flowery language of adoration. She pictured the romance, the intimacy, the connection. She felt a pang, a sudden hollowness, as if the air had been sucked from the room. Her own relationships… well, they were fine, she supposed. Predictable, maybe. Safe.

Clara tossed the letter back into the book, a little harder than necessary. She imagined Elias, the recipient of such passionate words, and felt a tiny sting of… something. She quickly set the book down and moved on to the next display, trying to ignore the way her own life suddenly felt faded and lacking.