Gemotions

The morning had started poorly. The bus was late, his toast burned, and now this. Michael had seen the hushed conversations, the furtive glances, the way Mr. Henderson kept avoiding eye contact. The signs were all there. The company was being swallowed up, and he was being thrown in the grinder. He shoved his hands into his pockets, his knuckles white against the denim.

He felt the familiar twitch in his eye, a prelude to a headache. He leaned back in his chair, trying to breathe, but the air felt thin, tainted by the impending doom. He imagined the new owners, the consultants in their starched shirts, and the redundancies that would inevitably follow. The thought made his chest tighten.

He glanced at the picture of his family on his desk, a reminder of what he would lose. The phone buzzed with an incoming call, and he let it go to voicemail. He just wanted to be left alone.