Gemotions

He stared at the email, the words blurring. "The Golden Spoon will be closing its doors..." It felt like a punch to the gut. Michael reread the sentence, the finality of it sinking in.

His hands felt clammy. He pushed away from his desk, the abrupt movement causing him to stumble. He needed air. He walked to the window, the city sprawling below, indifferent to his distress.

He recalled every Friday night at the restaurant, the shared laughter, the clinking glasses, the familiar face of the waiter. Everything felt suddenly fragile, precarious, like a house of cards about to collapse.