Gemotions

He sat hunched over the kitchen table, the half-eaten sandwich growing stale in front of him. The afternoon sun, usually a welcome guest, seemed to highlight the dust motes dancing in the air, a constant reminder of the unfinished chores that lay ahead. Finding the list, tucked into a forgotten cookbook, had been a blow. It was hers, a neat collection of travel destinations and career aspirations.

He'd assumed she'd given up on them. On the dreams. Instead, here they were, laid out in black and white: "Climb Mount Kilimanjaro," "Start a business," "Learn to play the saxophone." He felt a tightening in his chest. A profound sense of… emptiness, perhaps?

He pushed the sandwich away. It tasted like cardboard. The silence in the apartment pressed down on him, a physical weight. The saxophone, she'd always wanted one. He imagined her, years from now, effortlessly playing, and a hollow ache formed. He wished he'd tried harder.