Gemotions

“What did you expect?” Her father's words, a casual question over a video call, were like a slap. Ben’s usual jovial manner evaporated. He had never considered himself anything less than connected to his family.

He retreated to his workshop, the scent of wood and oil usually grounding, now suffocating. He hammered and sawed with frantic energy, the rhythmic pounding a futile attempt to expel the turmoil within. His hands were blistered, his muscles ached.

He stopped taking calls. He stared at the unfinished projects around his workspace, the things he was meant to make, and felt a profound sense of emptiness. The familiar tools, once extensions of himself, felt heavy and useless.