Gemotions

The old, familiar house felt like a museum. Each object held a memory, a reminder of the life he'd lost. He sat at the kitchen table, watching his mother meticulously polish the silverware, the same silverware she had always used, now an emblem of his failure.

“So, when are you going to start looking for work, dear?”

The question, always delivered with the same saccharine tone, made his teeth clench. He imagined the monotonous jobs he had to take, the low pay, the endless cycle of trying to succeed.

He stood up abruptly, knocking over his chair. The noise echoed in the quiet house. “I don’t know,” he muttered, before turning and walking away, leaving the chair where it lay. He needed space. He needed air. He needed to get away.