Gemotions

His face burned. Arthur clenched his jaw, the muscles in his neck protesting. The open mic night. He should have known better. He ran his hand through his hair, the gesture a nervous tic that had developed after his public blunder. He’d tried to recite a poem, but the words had died in his throat, replaced by a choking silence. The laughter, even the polite chuckles, still echoed in his memory. Finding a book in the second-hand shop, titled *Meditations*, was a comfort, a chance for introspection.

Inside, pressed between the pages, was a thin sheet of paper, a grocery list stained with what looked like coffee. "Milk. Eggs. Forget the damn performance," it read. The casual dismissal of his efforts, though not directed at him, felt like another shove, another reason to burrow further into himself.