Gemotions

The way the sunlight hit the dining room table, the angle of the curtains. Every detail felt off-kilter to Ben. Each day was a tightrope walk.

His mother’s attempts to engage in conversation made him want to scream. He'd abruptly leave the table, apologizing for the hasty exits and isolating himself in the garage. He had no control over the constant internal ache.

He couldn't sleep. He’d pace, picking at the loose threads on the sofa, counting the cracks in the ceiling. The feeling of wrongness never left.