Gemotions

He spent most of his days in the basement, the low ceiling and stale air a fitting backdrop to his mood. Dust motes danced in the single shaft of sunlight that pierced through a grimy window, illuminating the forgotten treasures and cast-offs he'd inherited. He ran a hand over a dusty record player, remembering the joy that music once brought.

“Dinner’s ready, Michael!” his mother called from upstairs, the sound muffled by the thick concrete walls. He dragged himself up the stairs, each step a monumental effort. The aroma of his favourite meal, lasagna, did nothing to stir his appetite. He pushed the food around his plate, unable to swallow, a lump lodged in his throat.

He noticed the concern etched on his father’s face, the unspoken questions hanging in the air. He wanted to explain, to articulate the weight that pressed on him, but the words wouldn’t come. He just shrugged, retreating into his shell.