Gemotions

The steam from the pasta dinner clouded the kitchen, but Sarah couldn’t shake the chill that had settled in her bones. Mark's phone, usually tossed carelessly on the counter, was clutched in his hand as he’d excused himself to "take a quick call" – again. He'd been doing it for weeks now, these urgent whispers, these careful retreats.

She scraped the burned edges of the garlic bread onto the plate with unnecessary force. The clatter echoed in the otherwise quiet apartment. It seemed the walls themselves were holding their breath, waiting for the charade to end.

“Everything alright, love?” he'd asked, returning with a forced smile.

“Perfect,” she'd replied, her voice flat, as she pushed the food away. It tasted like ash in her mouth.