Gemotions

The chipped paint on the bedroom door was a familiar sight. Michael ran his fingers over the surface, a sense of recognition washing over him. The room felt smaller now, not claustrophobic, but perfectly sized. His mother had offered to hang his artwork, and he hadn't refused.

He spent the morning sorting through old photographs, the images bringing forth a flood of nostalgia. The past was easy, safe. He didn't feel the need to rush, the need to achieve. The present was enough, the gentle rhythm of his parents' lives a comforting metronome. The weight of his own decisions had become less important.