Gemotions

Rain lashed against the windows of the support group meeting, mirroring the storm brewing inside Marcus. He hated these gatherings, the forced camaraderie, the shared stories of struggle. It felt like a competition of who could suffer most. He crossed his arms, the action a near-physical shield against the manufactured warmth of the room.

He observed the newcomers with a calculated eye, his lips curling with a barely perceptible expression of disapproval. Their nervous fidgeting, their wide, hopeful eyes—it was all so predictable. He’d seen it all before. He’d lived through it.

Then, a woman, her face pale, began to speak, detailing a particularly difficult episode. Marcus felt the familiar tightening in his chest. *Oh, give it a rest,* he thought, inwardly rolling his eyes. She wasn’t *that* bad off. He took a sip of water, the gesture meant to diminish her voice.

He listened, or rather, pretended to listen, his gaze fixed on the cracks in the ceiling, each one a testament to the flaws of existence, just like him.