Gemotions

He had been staring at the cracks in the ceiling for what felt like hours. Each one a tiny, jagged roadmap of a life he no longer recognized. When a polite knock echoed from the front door, it felt like a violation. He didn't want to talk. He didn't want to engage.

It was Mr. Henderson from next door, his face flushed with the energy he always seemed to possess. "Morning, mate! Just popped over to see if you'd be alright with me planting a little vegetable patch along the edge of your property. Won't take up much space, I promise." His voice was too cheerful, too vibrant.

A wave of something akin to nausea rolled through him. The thought of any change, any interaction, felt overwhelming. He grunted something noncommittal. Mr. Henderson, oblivious, kept talking. The man’s words faded to static as he retreated back into the dimness of his house.