Gemotions

The old house felt different, changed, though he couldn't quite put his finger on it. Maybe it was the silence, the absence of his own chaotic clutter. He felt exposed, like an open wound. He stood in the living room, the familiar furniture a collection of memories he wasn’t sure he wanted to revisit.

His mother, bustling around the room, made small talk. He found himself unable to answer the questions. The words seemed to stick in his throat. He wished he could disappear, evaporate into the floral wallpaper.

"Did you take your medication?" she asked, her voice tinged with concern. The question, so casually delivered, felt like a judgment. He stared at his hands, his fingers picking at the seams of his jeans. He didn't answer.