Gemotions

The aroma of coffee, usually comforting, was cloying, making his stomach churn. He sat at the communal table, picking at a pastry he didn’t want, his appetite gone. The room was noisy with chatter, a cacophony that grated on his raw nerves.

"Camp Meadowlark was a blast! Did anyone else go?" asked Ben, excitedly.

He looked up, his expression a mask. The name of the camp struck a chord. He took a deep breath, trying to maintain his composure.

“I did.” The words were flat, devoid of emotion. He quickly looked down again, focusing on the crumbs on his plate, ignoring the flash of surprise on Ben's face. He knew he'd been given away.