Gemotions

He stared at the letter, its weight a physical burden. He’d kept it tucked away, unopened, for weeks. The crisp, clean paper mocked the dust motes dancing in the afternoon sunbeams slicing through his cluttered apartment. Sarah's delicate script, a relic of a time when their world was painted in vibrant hues, now felt like a curse.

The words, when he finally forced himself to read them, were simple, direct. She took responsibility for the accusations she'd made, the friendships she'd shattered. He crumpled the paper in his hand. A knot formed in his stomach, a persistent, throbbing reminder of what he had lost.

He slammed his fist on the table, scattering a pile of bills. He hated her. Hated the way her actions had twisted their lives, the way she had stolen his peace. But a tiny, quiet voice within whispered that he also, somehow, hated himself. He walked into his kitchen and poured himself a glass of whiskey, and the familiar burn in his throat did nothing to soothe the hollowness within.