Gemotions

The sunlight sliced through the blinds, painting stripes across the dusty floorboards. I was perched on the edge of the bed, staring at the empty space beside me. Yesterday, Mark had emphatically shot down the idea of a cat. He’d listed reasons - allergies, cleaning, cost, the inevitable scratching of the sofa. He was so practical.

My hand drifted to my chest, a phantom sensation of a purring furball. I missed the simple affection of a creature, the soft weight of it against my side. I craved the unconditional, something uncomplicated.

He was right, of course. We were busy. Our lives were chaotic. But the hollowness in my chest was a constant companion, and I found myself tracing the outline of a nonexistent, feline form, a small, silent weight to fill the void.