Gemotions

He’d been acting strange for weeks, avoiding eye contact, flitting about the house like a trapped bird. Now, Sarah sat at the kitchen table, picking at the crust of a leftover pizza. The pizza tasted like ash. Mark’s phone, face down on the counter, vibrated. He was in the shower. She’d tried to ignore it, telling herself it was nothing. But the insistent tremor of the device was like a needle repeatedly jabbing at a wound.

She hesitated, her fingers hovering over the phone. A single, short text message lit up the screen: "Miss you."

The air seemed to thicken, making it difficult to breathe. The world tilted slightly. She felt a wave of nausea.

She got up and started washing the dishes. The hot water didn't sooth her. It just made her hands red. The rhythmic clinking of the plates offered no comfort.