Gemotions

Michael stared at his reflection, really *stared*. He looked like a refugee from his own life. The stubble he hadn’t bothered to shave, the slump of his shoulders… it was all so foreign. He’d pictured himself, after the apartment fire, a phoenix rising from the ashes of his belongings. Instead, he was back in his childhood bedroom, the one plastered with faded Star Wars posters, the one that still smelled faintly of his teenage angst.

His mother, peeking in, offered a sympathetic smile, holding a plate of cookies. “Dinner’s almost ready, dear.” He mumbled a reply, feeling a cold dread creep into his bones. Cookies? Dinner? It all felt… unreal. Like a dream he couldn't wake from.

He found himself pacing, running a hand through his hair, over and over again. The familiar creak of the floorboards was a constant reminder of the life he thought he'd outgrown. He was back where he started. Utterly dumbfounded.