Gemotions

The morning sun, already high in the sky, felt particularly intrusive as it streamed through the window. It illuminated the dust motes dancing in the air, a visual representation of how little I’d been doing. Mr. Peterson, from next door, was at my door, a determined frown etched on his face. He held a brochure showcasing various landscaping options.

My stomach clenched. "About the birch," he began, his voice laced with forced politeness. My gaze drifted to the ceiling. The idea of getting involved in a potentially lengthy discussion was unbearable. I needed to conserve energy.

I mumbled something incoherent, trying to sound responsive, but mostly just hoping he’d leave. His words became a dull drone. My body seemed to weigh a thousand pounds. I wanted, desperately, to remain motionless.