Gemotions

The air in the room was stale, thick with the scent of unwashed clothes and regret. John sat in his armchair, a half-eaten bowl of cereal on the table in front of him. He hadn't touched it. The news reports about Carver Reed played on a loop on the television, the accusations repeating themselves.

He'd spent the morning staring at the ceiling, unable to get out of bed. The thought of facing the day, of doing anything, seemed overwhelming. He felt a heavy weight on his chest, a crushing sense of disillusionment.

He’d always dreamed of becoming a writer, of creating worlds like Reed had. Now, the dream felt tarnished, tainted. He closed his eyes, the weariness settling deep into his bones.