Gemotions

He woke up to the smell of frying bacon. It was the same bacon his mother used to make every Saturday morning when he was a kid. He lay in bed, the sunlight slanting through the blinds, painting stripes across his face. He felt like he was observing the world through a glass, with the edges distorted.

His mother bustled into the room, a tray balanced in her hands. "Breakfast in bed, sweetie!" she declared. He felt a knot tighten in his stomach. He wasn’t used to this level of care.

The bacon was good, perfectly crispy, but he couldn't enjoy it. He ate mechanically, his gaze fixed on the ceiling, trying to unravel the tangled threads of the last few months. His thoughts were a blur of questions, and he was left feeling disoriented.

He wanted to ask her something, but the words wouldn't come.