Gemotions

He’d stopped eating. The plate of reheated lasagna sat cold on the kitchen table, untouched. John picked at a loose thread on the tablecloth, his fingers numb. Across the street, the newly renovated porch on Mr. Henderson's house gleamed under the twilight. He’d just overheard, through a crack in the fence, Mr. Henderson casually discussing a recent investment that had yielded a six-figure return.

Each time he tried to swallow, his throat seemed to constrict. The air felt thick, heavy. He’d been saving for years, scrimping and saving, just to keep his head above water.

His apartment, with its peeling paint and cramped spaces, suddenly felt smaller, suffocating. He wanted to scream, to smash something. Instead, he just sat there, listening to the muffled sounds of Mr. Henderson's laughter, each syllable a cruel reminder of what he lacked.