Gemotions

A heavy blanket of apathy had settled over John's soul. He’d barely moved from the armchair all day, the TV a flickering distraction. Then he'd discovered Maria's secret, a dog-eared notepad tucked under her mattress. He picked it up, feeling a strange mix of guilt and fascination.

"Write a letter to my grandmother. Learn to knit. Ride a horse on the beach." Each entry was a tiny spark of intention, of longing. He ran his thumb over the page, feeling a dull ache in his chest.

He felt the familiar thrum of unease that had been his constant companion. He remembered the feeling of excitement, of purpose. He remembered the feeling of himself. The notebook felt like a mirror, reflecting back his own hollowness.