Gemotions

The silence in the car was crushing. His father, usually a chatterbox, was unusually quiet, his hands gripping the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles were white. The highway blurred past, the landscape a meaningless tapestry. He felt so utterly betrayed.

He slumped in his seat, staring out the window, his jaw clenched. Every mile felt like an eternity, each turn of the wheels an insult. He wanted to scream, to lash out, to force his father to acknowledge the devastation.

He could feel the pressure building, a physical tension that made his muscles ache. He imagined ripping up the world, destroying everything to show them what they’d done. The air became thick, and he struggled to regulate his breathing.