Gemotions

He’d sworn he'd be independent. He’d envisioned a life of late nights and early mornings, of curated chaos, of *his* choices. Now, here he was, staring at his childhood bedroom. The posters he’d hung as a teenager were still there, the band logos fading, mocking his current situation.

His father knocked on the door, then poked his head in. “Need anything, son?” The easy camaraderie in his father’s voice felt like an accusation.

He wanted to tell him to *stop* calling him "son," that he was a grown man, and he’d deal with things just fine, but the words caught in his throat. He just grunted, turning away to stare out the window, at the world he was now locked out of.