Gemotions

He’d always been a creature of habit. Every Friday, Mark would get home and pour himself a whiskey, and he would always give his wife, Sarah, a quick peck on the cheek. But today, after discovering the bank statement in his desk drawer, she found herself staring at him from across the kitchen, as if she were seeing him for the first time. The familiar ritual of the Friday night whiskey felt wrong.

His smile seemed strained, his usual easy laughter absent. He was humming to himself, but the tune grated on her nerves. She felt a tremor in her hands as she washed the dishes, and the clatter of the plates felt deafening.

"Anything wrong, honey?" Mark asked, his voice low. Sarah flinched. She looked at him again, a sense of distance spreading between them. "No, just tired," she mumbled, not meeting his eyes. The thought of their shared life, their shared future, felt oddly precarious.