Gemotions

Rain lashed against the window, mirroring the storm brewing inside Mark. He'd woken up with a leaden feeling, as if his bones were made of concrete. He’d barely been able to lift his arms to get dressed. Then came the invitation to a celebratory dinner, courtesy of Ben. He'd been claiming to be a surgeon for years.

Dinner was a blur of forced smiles and Ben's elaborate tales of saving lives. Each anecdote felt like another weight on Mark’s chest. The way Ben described his "colleagues," the intricate medical jargon he tossed around—it all seemed staged. He found himself picking at the steak, the expensive cut suddenly tasteless. He caught himself staring, and he knew something was off.

Later, on the phone with Ben, Mark said that it was a slow night and that he'd be over in a few to have a chat. He hung up the phone and walked to his front door, feeling drained. He'd never been any good at the confrontation. He walked out of his front door and into the rain.