Gemotions

He stared at the laptop screen, the cursor blinking mockingly. The novel, *My Emily*, lay open, its chapters filled with his idealized version of her. He knew, with a certainty that gnawed at his gut, that she’d found it. He imagined her reading it, the slow unraveling, the realization that the woman he wrote about wasn't the woman he lived with. A cold sweat slicked his palms.

He picked at the chipped paint on the windowsill. The silence in the apartment felt enormous, suffocating. He went to the kitchen and made coffee, but the smell didn't reach him. The taste was ash. He had to face her.

He stood in the doorway and saw that she had taken her things, the empty space on the shelf where her favorite books had been.