Gemotions

He sat on the edge of the bed, the list a crumpled confession in his lap. "Write a novel," it declared. He had always wanted to write, to be taken seriously. She’d always encouraged him, but not in the way he'd wanted.

The paper felt suddenly heavy, like a lead weight. He walked to his desk and opened the drawer where he kept his own unfinished manuscripts. He closed the drawer with a definitive click.

Later, when she asked about his day, he just grunted, the words sticking in his throat. He retreated to the spare room, the door closing between them.