Gemotions

The hammering was a steady drumbeat, a rhythmic percussion that underscored his misery. He sat on the floor, back against the wall, listening. Each sound was a punch to the gut. The house was a testament to his loneliness.

The sunlight streamed through the window, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air, but the scene felt dim. He'd stopped bothering with the plants on the windowsill, and they were dying slowly, just as he felt himself dying inside.

He picked up a photograph, his fingers tracing the outline of her face. A single tear escaped, tracing a path down his cheek. He had never felt so utterly, completely depleted.