Gemotions

Rain lashed against the window, blurring the city lights into smeared halos. Michael watched it, his hands clasped loosely in his lap. The news was on, droning on about the weather. He knew it wouldn't change. He had come home from work to find a book on the coffee table. It was open to a page filled with Cyrillic script. He ran a hand through his hair, a gesture devoid of energy.

Later, over dinner, Anya tried to explain. "It's for… your family," she said, her voice hesitant. He didn't respond. He just picked at the food, the taste of it unremarkable. The silence between them felt thick, a heavy blanket he couldn't bring himself to shrug off. He felt like he was watching a play, and he knew how it ended.