Gemotions

The rhythmic thud of the punching bag was supposed to be therapeutic, a way to channel his frustrations. Instead, it felt mocking. He’d trained relentlessly as a boxer, dreaming of taking down the light welterweight title. His trainer, however, had other ideas. "We need you at heavyweight," he’d announced, clapping him on the back. His stomach churned. He grunted, each punch now a frustrated explosion. The arena lights seemed blinding. He paused, his breath ragged. He was built for speed, for agility, not this lumbering, heavy-handed game.