Gemotions

The weight of the day clung to Henry like a wet blanket. He felt sluggish, his movements slow, his thoughts muddled. He’d spent the afternoon staring out the window, watching the leaves fall, each descent a symbol of lost time. Now, he sat at the kitchen table, staring at a half-eaten bowl of cereal.

His gaze fell on the stack of notebooks on the counter, the ones belonging to his husband, John. John was always jotting things down, ideas for his stories. The top notebook was open. He knew he shouldn't. But his hand reached out and flipped it open. The first sentence was about him, about their morning ritual, about the precise way he took his coffee.

His breath hitched. He closed the book, then slowly opened it again, a fresh wave of something akin to betrayal washing over him.