Gemotions

He found them on the doorstep, a vibrant explosion of red roses against the peeling paint. Liam, his face drawn and pale, picked them up, the thorns pricking his fingers, a physical sting mirroring the ache in his chest. A card was missing, of course.

The silence that followed their arrival was a hammer blow. He’d made a mess of things, a colossal fumble. The last conversation, a sharp, bitter exchange, echoed in his mind, each cutting word a fresh wound.

He moved them to the kitchen counter and stared. The beauty of the roses felt like a mocking reminder of everything he had lost, of the chance he'd squandered. He sank onto a chair, the weight of his actions pressing down on him, and rubbed a hand across his weary eyes, wishing, perhaps for the first time, that he could rewind the hands of time.