Gemotions

The air in the living room felt thick with unspoken disapproval. He had chosen *this*. Of all the choices. Liam glared at the ornate prayer rug, a gaudy splash of color in his mother's otherwise tastefully decorated home. His sister, Clara, a woman who rarely deviated from her routines, was positively beaming. He wanted to slap the smug grin off her face.

He picked at a loose thread on the sofa, pulling until it snapped. He hated the way his father kept calling him "son," a forced familiarity that only heightened his nausea.

"So," he began, voice flat, "are you going to start wearing the whole… outfit? Or is this just a phase?" He couldn't meet his sister's eye. He focused on the intricate pattern of the rug.