Gemotions

It was the little details that undid him. The way the author described his mother’s perfume, the brand of cigarettes he used to smoke, the songs he listened to when he was heartbroken. These were things only he knew. Or so he thought.

He felt a chill, despite the summer heat. He locked the door, drew the curtains, and turned off all the lights. The apartment, usually a refuge, now felt like a prison.

He crouched on the floor, hugging his knees, and tried to make sense of this violation. He whispered, "How?" over and over again.