Gemotions

He hunched deeper into the shadows of the bus stop, the damp seeping through his threadbare coat. The weight of his failures pressed down on him, a physical burden. He hadn't bothered to shave in days, and his reflection in the bus shelter glass was a stranger.

He pulled out the crumpled doctor's note, the diagnosis a constant, unwelcome companion. The symptoms flared at the worst times, leaving him gasping and disoriented. Finding work was a joke; he couldn't keep a job for more than a few weeks. The shame was a constant companion.

A young woman, her face pale, stumbled off the bus, clutching her throat. Her eyes were wide with terror. He knew that look. He'd seen it countless times in the mirror. He lurched forward, pushing past the other waiting passengers.

"Are you alright?" he croaked, his voice rough with disuse. He recognized the signs of his shared ailment. He reached out to help, the offer of support a sharp, unfamiliar feeling.