Gemotions

The sun was blinding. I yanked the blinds shut, plunging the apartment into a premature twilight. The air felt thick, heavy, like the atmosphere before a storm. I couldn't bear the thought of going outside, of facing the cheerful optimism of the neighborhood.

I paced the living room, my movements restless and erratic. Every object in the room, once familiar and comforting, now seemed alien and judgmental. The painting over the couch, a gift from my grandmother, mocked my helplessness.

I grabbed the remote, flipping through channels, searching for something, anything, to distract myself. But the news was equally infuriating, the commercials too saccharine. I wanted to scream, to lash out, to break something.