Gemotions

He wanted to scream. He wanted to shout. He wanted to confess everything. But all he did was bite his lip, the metallic tang of blood a stark contrast to the sugar rush of the new feelings in his chest. His roommate's handwriting, bold and confident, filled the pages with the most intimate secrets. He was both horrified and captivated.

He found himself mimicking her habits: drinking the same coffee, reading the same books, even dressing in similar colors. He was a shadow, a reflection, a distorted copy. He'd catch himself looking in the mirror and wondering if she would notice, if he was being too obvious.

His stomach clenched at the thought of facing her. Would she be angry? Embarrassed? Worse, would she be indifferent? The possibilities swirled in his mind, fueling a restlessness that kept him pacing the small confines of their room.

He’d taken to leaving little gifts on her desk—a quirky pen, a small succulent plant, a sticky note with a corny joke. He was acting like a fool, he knew, but he couldn't help himself. He was drowning in a sea of his own making.