Gemotions

The smell of his mother’s cooking, once a comfort, now felt like a taunt. Liam sat at the kitchen table, watching her flitting around the stove, a whirlwind of apron and good intentions. He'd lost his job, his apartment, and now, his independence. He slumped in his chair, feeling the weight of the world pressing down on him.

"So, the job hunt going well?" his father asked, the question laced with a forced optimism that grated on Liam's nerves.

He grunted in response, fiddling with the salt shaker, the metallic tang of it somehow mirroring the taste in his mouth. He felt the familiar heat rising in his cheeks, the urge to lash out. He forced himself to take a deep breath, focusing on the small, almost imperceptible imperfections of the table's varnish, a way to keep from exploding.