Gemotions

He found them on the doorstep when he got home, a splash of vibrant red against the chipped paint. Roses. A dozen, tightly budded. His shoulders slumped. He knew, with a sinking certainty, who they were from. The lack of a card was worse than a note, a deliberate act of… what? Ignoring the question, he brought them inside.

The silence of the apartment felt deafening. He tossed the roses onto the kitchen table, the stems hitting with a hollow thud. He poured himself a whiskey, the ice clinking in the glass. The neatness of the flowers, the perfection of the blooms, felt accusatory.