Gemotions

The house was too quiet. The silence pressed against him, a physical presence. Each breath was a struggle. His wife, Maya, was at the kitchen table, writing. She had been writing almost constantly for weeks. He found the manuscript, a fictionalized account of their relationship, buried under a pile of bills.

It was almost too much for him to bear. His insides were heavy, and his limbs felt like lead. He wanted to go to bed.

He turned to the stairs, then stopped, and looked back at her.