Gemotions

The notice, a stark white rectangle thumbtacked to the crumbling brick of the student union, felt like a personal affront. It announced the imminent closure of Oakhaven College. Mark crumpled the paper in his fist, the edges digging into his palm. He wanted to scream, to lash out, to break something. His carefully constructed life, built on the promise of a degree and a future, was being reduced to rubble.

He stormed back to his dorm room, slamming the door so hard the cheap particleboard splintered. The dorm itself – the stained carpet, the peeling paint, the perpetually flickering fluorescent lights – had always been an irritating symbol of his low-rent existence. Now, it was a reminder of everything he was about to lose.

He ripped his posters off the wall, each tear a release of the building resentment. He threw his textbooks across the room, watching them scatter uselessly. The quiet ache in his chest was a growing inferno.