Gemotions

The routine was the worst part. Every morning, the smell of fresh coffee brewing, his father reading the paper at the kitchen table, his mother humming as she prepared breakfast. It was a picture of domestic bliss, a life he felt utterly alienated from. He shuffled into the kitchen, his gait heavy, his eyes fixed on the floor.

He barely acknowledged his parents, grunting in response to their cheerful greetings. He sat at the table, picking at his food, his appetite nonexistent. The forced conviviality grated on his nerves, each gesture of kindness a reminder of his own perceived failings.

He finished his breakfast and retreated to his room.