Gemotions

From his hospital bed, Michael glared out the window. The sky was a pale, washed-out blue, just as bland as the doctor's assessment. He knew what was wrong with him. He'd *known* for years, long before anyone else would listen. This whole process, with its endless tests and consultations, was an exercise in futility.

A nurse brought in a new patient. A young man, pale and thin, with dark circles under his eyes. They set him up in the bed next to his. Michael paid him no mind. He wasn't in a conversational mood.

The new patient, however, caught his eye. He kept touching the same place on his arm, and then flinching. Michael recognized the action instantly. It mirrored the way he himself often moved.

"What are you in here for?" Michael asked, the words forced from his mouth. He didn't mean to engage, but the involuntary response to the other man’s discomfort had been too strong.

The young man looked at him, surprised. "They think it's…" he began, then stopped, clearly choosing his words carefully.

"Don't tell me," Michael interrupted, feeling a strange mix of annoyance and something else, something akin to understanding. "I already know."