Gemotions

The texture of the worn couch beneath his hands felt the same as always. He listened to his dad's complaints about work. He watched his mother prepare dinner. The familiar routine, the rhythm of their lives, was as predictable as the sunrise. He found it was also as meaningless.

He attempted a conversation with his sister, who asked him about his old life. He listened to her questions, and he answered them. He also didn't care much about the responses. He drifted off to sleep, feeling nothing.