Gemotions

The air in the apartment felt thick, almost stagnant, mirroring the sluggish movement of time. I had found it shoved in the back of the wardrobe, a small, brightly coloured notebook. It was hers, filled with her loopy handwriting. I hesitated before opening it.

"See the cherry blossoms in Japan," it declared. "Learn to bake sourdough bread." Then, the last entry: "Find someone who makes me laugh every day." The words hit me with the force of a physical blow.

My stomach twisted. I hadn't made her laugh in months. I looked around the room, the artifacts of our life together suddenly appearing dull and lifeless. The sunlight streaming through the window seemed less radiant than usual.