Gemotions

The sterile white walls of the hospital room felt suffocating. Sarah sat in the uncomfortable chair, her nails digging into her palms. She found it in the small drawer beside his bed. It was a notebook, its cover plain, the pages filled with her husband's neat script. She shouldn't have been looking.

"See the Grand Canyon." He hated the outdoors.

The list continued, each item a silent accusation. “Write a song.” “Learn to paint.” “Go to space.” He was a lawyer; she thought she had known him.

Her throat tightened. She looked at him, pale and still in the bed. He stirred, his eyes fluttering open. She quickly closed the book.