Gemotions

He peeled the lid off the Tupperware container, the smell of leftovers – weeks-old, he suspected – assaulting his nostrils. His apartment, now a storage unit, held none of this. The sheer, overwhelming *stuff* of his childhood home was too much. He slammed the lid back on, the plastic crinkling loudly in the quiet kitchen. "Dad," he called, his voice flat.

His father shuffled in, wearing his stained, ancient slippers. "Everything alright, son? Hungry?" He gestured towards the microwave with a hopeful grin.

"No, I'm not hungry," he replied, backing away, hands in his pockets. He couldn't stand the way his father chewed, the smacking sound amplified in the silence. He thought about the life he used to have, the freedom, the cleanliness. Gone.

His father blinked, his smile faltering. "Well, there's plenty of... uh... options. Your mom made a casserole..."

He just shook his head, retreating to his old bedroom, the walls still plastered with posters from his teen years. The air in the room was thick, stagnant, like a forgotten memory. He sat on the edge of the bed, feeling utterly trapped.