Gemotions

The last rays of sunlight filtered through the blinds, casting long, distorted shadows across the room. He sat on the floor, legs crossed, staring at the open pages. The prose was filled with his version of her. His words felt sharp, like shards of glass.

His fingers traced the lines of text, a slow, deliberate movement. A tightness settled in his chest, a feeling he couldn’t name, a heaviness, perhaps. He found himself picking at the frayed edges of the rug.

He wanted to argue, to deny, to rewrite the whole thing. He wanted to undo it all. He just couldn't bring himself to move. The room felt like a cage.