Gemotions

The takeout container felt heavy in Leo's hands, a direct contrast to the lightness he usually felt on Friday nights. The familiar scent of General Tso's chicken did little to lift his spirits. He dragged his feet across the parking lot, the asphalt reflecting the dim streetlights, a depressing mirror of his mood.

He sat at his kitchen table, the plastic fork clinking against the container. Each bite was a chore. He picked at the rice, the blandness of it mirroring the emptiness he felt. Maya was leaving. Across the country. He couldn't shake the knot in his stomach.

"Ugh," he muttered, pushing the food away. The silence of the apartment felt amplified, suffocating. He leaned back in his chair, staring at the ceiling, the stucco texture blurring in his vision.