The chipped ceramic mug felt heavy in Leo's hands. He cradled it close, the lukewarm coffee doing nothing to soothe the tremor in his fingers. His mother's floral wallpaper seemed to press in on him, the bright pattern mocking his current predicament. He’d told everyone he was *choosing* to move back. That his freelance work was "more efficient" at home. The truth, of course, was scrawled across the eviction notice he'd folded and refolded a dozen times.
His father cleared his throat, the sound sharp in the otherwise silent kitchen. "So, about the bills, Leo…" The sentence hung in the air, unfinished, a clear expectation. Leo’s face flushed. He mumbled something about contributing when he could, then took a hasty gulp of coffee, the bitterness a familiar taste of failure. He avoided his father's gaze, focusing instead on the peeling paint around the window frame.
Later, he found himself hiding in the spare bedroom, the door closed and bolted. The old duvet felt thin and inadequate, the scent of mothballs a constant reminder of his retreating adolescence. He imagined the whispers, the knowing glances, the pitying smiles he was sure were happening just beyond the thin walls. He wanted to vanish, to sink into the worn mattress and disappear.