Gemotions

He stared out the window, the overcast sky mirroring the dull ache in his chest. Another Tuesday. He'd spent the morning shuffling papers at his desk, each task feeling less and less consequential. Then the phone rang. It was the school. Little Timmy was having trouble in class. Mr. Henderson was his teacher. The name triggered a faint recollection. The man who had once lectured him about the importance of being punctual. Mr. Henderson. Good grief.

He trudged down the familiar school hallway, the scent of floor wax and stale air filling his nostrils. The fluorescent lights hummed, amplifying the quiet in his ears. When he finally made it to Timmy's classroom, he had to take a few seconds to compose himself. There was Mr. Henderson, older now, but just as stern. The meeting was a blur of platitudes and concerns. The entire encounter left him feeling a sense of disconnect. He was a spectator in his own life.