Gemotions

The phone rang, shattering the fragile peace of the evening. It was Liam, offering a weak apology, a transparent attempt at reconciliation. "Just a scheduling conflict, nothing personal!" he’d said. The words tasted like ash in Michael’s mouth. He could feel the pulse in his temple throbbing.

He slammed the phone down, the plastic receiver rattling in its cradle. He paced the length of his living room, a caged animal. Every object in the room – the furniture, the pictures on the walls – seemed to press in on him, suffocating him.

He grabbed a beer from the fridge, the cold glass offering a temporary respite. He downed it in one long swallow, then slammed the empty bottle on the counter. The shattering sound would have to wait.