Gemotions

The scent of stale coffee clung to Leo like a shroud. He leaned against the counter, watching the rain streak down the window. The world outside was a blurry, watery mess. He hadn’t shaved in days; his reflection was a stranger. The novel, “The Man Who Couldn’t Sleep,” lay open on the coffee table. His name, not *his* name, but a thinly veiled anagram, was printed on the dedication page.

He knew he should be angry, furious even. But he felt… nothing. The descriptions of his insomnia, his restless nights, his anxieties about his career – they were all so meticulously documented, so clinical. It was as if someone had taken a magnifying glass to his soul and found it lacking. He absentmindedly reached for a cigarette, even though he'd quit months ago. He lit it, drawing the smoke deep into his lungs, a temporary oblivion.