Gemotions

He lay sprawled across the sofa, a half-eaten bag of crisps resting on his stomach. The remote control, a relic of forgotten intentions, lay just beyond his reach. The afternoon light cast long, languid shadows across the room, mirroring the state of his soul.

The doctor’s words echoed in his head: “Extremely rare. We have very little information.” His diagnosis: a debilitating fatigue-inducing condition. Even the smallest tasks felt monumental.

A notification popped up on his phone: a support group meeting. The energy required to leave the house, to interact with others, to feign interest – it was simply too much. He swiped it away.

A hesitant ring at the doorbell. He contemplated the effort involved in answering. Finally, he dragged himself to his feet and opened the door. There stood a woman, her face etched with a similar weariness. "Are you… are you Michael?" she asked, her voice barely a whisper. "I got your name from Dr. Reynolds."