Gemotions

He found them on the doorstep when he came home from work: a collection of roses, perfect and crimson. He picked them up, a frown etching itself onto his face. He scanned them, turning them over. No note.

He'd been feeling off all day, his usual cheerfulness replaced with a leaden weight. He placed the flowers on the counter. Their vibrant color seemed to bleed into the blandness of his apartment.

He didn't bother making dinner. He simply sat on the sofa, staring at the roses. He ran a hand through his hair, a gesture he often did when he was struggling to process something.