Gemotions

The clinking of silverware and the murmur of conversation drifted from the Yates' backyard, now bathed in the warm glow of string lights. Leo knew the Yates had always been "well-off," but the private chef, the live band, and the overflowing bar were a level of extravagance he hadn’t anticipated.

He'd spent the afternoon struggling to assemble a rickety shed in his own backyard, the sweat stinging his eyes. He thought of the times he'd politely declined invitations to their gatherings, citing financial constraints. Suddenly, the effort he’d put into maintaining a facade of contentment felt hollow, a performance for an audience of one: himself.

He stared at his hands, calloused and rough. He felt a profound sense of… something akin to being an outsider. He pulled the blinds, plunging his own house into darkness.