Gemotions

The smell of Sunday roast clung to the air, a potent reminder of everything Michael had lost. He sat at the head of the table, his chair feeling disproportionately small. His parents, at either side of him, treated him like a child again, their solicitous questions about his day grating on his nerves. He picked at his food, the meatloaf somehow tasting of stale disappointment.

His sister, across the table, kept shooting him glances – sympathetic, yet somehow smug. He could practically hear her thinking, “I told you so.” He excused himself from the table, claiming a sudden headache, and retreated to his childhood bedroom.

The walls were plastered with posters of bands he no longer listened to, the smell of dust and forgotten dreams filling his nostrils. The bed felt impossibly small. He stared out the window at the neighbor's meticulously manicured lawn, the perfect green a stark contrast to his own life, which felt like a series of missed opportunities and broken promises. He pressed his forehead against the cool glass, feeling a wave of inadequacy wash over him.