Gemotions

He stared at the roses, crimson and perfect, a splash of extravagance on the chipped paint of the kitchen counter. They had arrived this morning, a courier having simply handed them over without so much as a grunt. No name, no message. Just the flowers.

His breakfast cereal remained untouched, the milk curdling at the edges. He sat hunched over the table, propping his chin with a balled fist, the wood pressing into his skin. The silence in the house was a palpable thing, thick and heavy. He felt a profound sense of loss, a vacuum where joy used to be. The vivid petals seemed to taunt him with their beauty.