Gemotions

He ran a hand through his hair, the gesture almost violent. The chipped tea set, once his grandmother's, sat gleaming under the harsh kitchen light. He avoided looking at it directly. His sister wanted to sell it to cover the cost of her new business. He knew he should be supportive, but a dull thrumming ache resonated in his temples.

He found himself pacing the small kitchen, his bare feet silent on the worn linoleum. The silence felt heavy, oppressive. He opened the fridge and stared at its meagre contents, feeling a sudden, inexplicable hunger.

He slammed the door and resumed his pacing. The china's delicate porcelain seemed to mock him, a fragile symbol of a past he couldn’t bear to let go of. He felt as if he was being crushed, and he hated it.