Gemotions

The antique writing desk, my father's, stood in the study, covered in a thin layer of dust. The afternoon sun cast long shadows across the room. Dad was speaking, his tone carefully controlled, about the rising cost of medical bills. I felt a flush creep up my neck. I ran a hand through my hair, unable to sit still.

"It’s a tough decision," he said, his voice flat. I swallowed hard, trying to keep my breathing even. I focused on the intricate carvings on the desk, the delicate detail that I had never truly appreciated. My body felt as though it was humming.

I imagined myself sitting at the desk, running my fingers across the cool wood. A sudden, unexpected desire bloomed within me. I wanted to know everything about it.