Gemotions

The world felt muted to Sarah. Colors seemed washed out, sounds distant. A profound weariness clung to her, a constant, pervasive exhaustion that seeped into her bones. She sat hunched on the park bench, the autumn wind whipping her hair across her face, uncaring. Leaves, vibrant and then decaying, mirrored her own internal state.

A man approached, his gait unsteady. He sat down heavily, his face etched with lines of strain. He pulled a crumpled tissue from his pocket and wiped his brow. "This weather is killing me," he wheezed. "It always is."

Sarah, rarely inclined to speak to anyone, found herself answering. "It's always something, isn't it?"

"It is. And this pain...everywhere...it’s like living under a rock." He looked at her, his eyes full of a weary understanding. "You get it, don't you?"