Gemotions

The email arrived, a digital siren. He saw the subject line – "Gardening Proposal". His stomach lurched. He felt the familiar weight settle in his chest. A crushing, suffocating sensation. He didn't want to open it. Couldn't.

He finally clicked.

"Dear Mr. Davies," it began, in that maddeningly cheerful font. "I hope this finds you well. I'm writing to enquire about the possibility of using a small portion of your south-facing garden for a raised bed. My children are very keen..."

He felt a wave of nausea, his fingers tingling with a phantom itch. He wanted to delete the email, to obliterate the words, to make it all disappear. The idea of *someone else* touching his grass!

He leaned back in his chair, trying to ground himself.