Gemotions

Rain lashed against the windows, mimicking the staccato rhythm of Clara’s own ragged breathing. She huddled in the armchair, a threadbare blanket pulled tight around her. Her phone lay face down on the coffee table, a silent tomb. The doorbell chimed, a sound that usually sparked a flicker of anticipation, now just served to tighten her chest. She dragged herself to the door and peered through the peephole. A delivery person stood there, holding a vibrant bouquet, a riot of colour against the grey. No card. Just flowers. A fresh ache bloomed in her stomach.

The scent of the lilies and roses felt cloying in the small apartment. She set them on the kitchen counter, their beauty a cruel contrast to the dust motes dancing in the weak sunlight. She tried to find a vase, but the effort felt insurmountable, the simple task of locating one an exhausting odyssey. She ended up pushing them into a chipped mug she barely used.

She sat back down, the silence amplifying the thrumming in her ears. Each petal seemed to mock her, a reminder of a life that felt impossibly distant, of promises broken and futures abandoned.