Gemotions

The drive home was a blur. The familiar route, once comforting, now felt alien, the scenery a meaningless collection of shapes and colors. His hands gripped the steering wheel so tightly that his knuckles were white.

He barely registered his parents' questions at dinner, answering in monosyllables. He pushed the food around his plate, unable to swallow. The weight of the accusation felt like a lead ball in his stomach.

He excused himself before the end of the meal, retreating to his room. He lay on his bed, staring at the ceiling, feeling a profound sense of isolation.