Gemotions

The tiny screen glowed accusingly in Mark’s hand. He'd poured his heart out to his therapist in a text, explaining the utter exhaustion with his job, but it was now delivered to *his mother*. His face crumpled.

He scrubbed a hand across his face, the stubble scratching against his skin. This was his worst nightmare. He felt a sharp jab of irritation towards his mother's well-meaning but utterly clueless attempts to help. He had to make it look like a typo, a mistake, anything.

He slumped against the kitchen counter, the granite cold beneath his cheek. The phone was a weapon, pointed directly at his chest.