Gemotions

He stared at the ceiling fan, its blades rotating in a monotonous, hypnotic circle. He hadn't slept in what felt like forever. Everything felt… distant. The world was happening somewhere else, and he was an unwilling spectator.

A persistent knocking echoed through the house. He dragged himself out of bed and downstairs, the carpet feeling soft and unfamiliar beneath his feet. It was Mr. Abernathy, his face creased with concern.

"Good afternoon, Mark," Mr. Abernathy said. "I wanted to talk about that birch tree. The roots are causing problems with my drainage system."

Mark stared at him, unable to formulate a response. His throat felt constricted, making speech difficult. Everything was a struggle.

"Are you all right, Mark?" Mr. Abernathy asked, his voice softening.

Mark blinked, then nodded slowly. He thought about the birch, how the leaves always brought him down into a seasonal low. He sighed, a sound that seemed to carry the weight of the world. "Whatever you want," he said, his voice barely a whisper.