Gemotions

He ran a hand through his already disheveled hair, the gesture failing to calm the tempest brewing inside him. The deadline loomed; the presentation was due tomorrow, and everything felt wrong. His muscles were rigid, his jaw clenched so tightly it ached. He’d barely slept in days, haunted by anxieties that swirled around him like a persistent fog. He was so on edge.

Across the coffee shop, a young woman spilled her latte. She swore under her breath, a sharp, brittle sound, and her hands shook as she mopped up the mess. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes wide, and she chewed on her lip in a way that he recognised. He noticed her.

Later, in a small, sterile clinic, the doctor's words hung in the air: “Xerocytosis, it seems.” The woman, whose name was Maya, turned to him, a flicker of something akin to recognition in her weary eyes. "You too?" she asked quietly.