Gemotions

“They’re for you, I think,” the receptionist said, her voice a bright, chirping counterpoint to the fog that had settled in Michael's mind. He took the bouquet – a mix of muted, autumnal tones – and mumbled a thank you. He was struggling.

He wandered back to his office, the heavy scent of the flowers almost suffocating. He set them on his desk, the vibrant colors clashing with the sterile environment. He hadn’t felt like this in years. His mind replayed the events of the previous days, over and over, each time deepening the ache that had taken root in his chest.

He ran a hand through his hair, his fingers tangling in the strands. He leaned back in his chair and stared at the ceiling, feeling a profound sense of isolation. The flowers offered no comfort, just a stark reminder of his isolation.