Gemotions

The roses, crimson and perfect, sat on the mahogany desk, a jarring splash of color against the sterile white of the office. Mark stared at them, a knot tightening in his chest. He’d poured his heart into the presentation, stayed late every night. Surely, a thank you, some form of acknowledgement, was warranted.

He glared at the flowers. They were a lavish gesture, undeniably. Yet, the absence of a note felt like a deliberate slight, an intentional omission. The blood pounded in his ears. He gripped the edge of the desk, knuckles white.

“Well, this is just great,” he muttered, his voice barely a whisper. He felt a sudden, inexplicable urge to throw them in the nearest wastebasket. He needed to be strong. His chest heaved with a suppressed emotion he could barely manage.