Gemotions

The coffee tasted like ash in Michael’s mouth. He slammed the mug down on the counter, the ceramic clinking loudly. The doctor’s office had apologized profusely, offering a follow-up appointment, but the damage was done. The report, initially condemning, was not his. The one they now claimed was his, was… fine. He should be grateful. Instead, he felt a crushing sense of… void.

He’d spent months preparing himself, mentally and emotionally. He’d told his family, prepared a will. He'd even started learning Italian, a lifelong dream he thought he wouldn't have time for. Now, the time stretched before him, an endless expanse. The world felt dull, his enthusiasm for the things he once loved – his photography, his garden – completely dissipated. He looked at the half-filled sketchbook on his table, mocking him with its emptiness.

He went outside, but the familiar scent of blooming roses, usually a balm for his soul, did nothing to soothe the tension in his chest. His feet felt heavy, as if tethered to the ground.