Gemotions

The spare bedroom felt smaller than he remembered, the air thick with the scent of lavender potpourri. He’d told his father not to bother unpacking his boxes, that he’d do it himself, but when he'd returned from his (pointless) job search, his clothes were neatly folded in the closet, a framed photo of him as a child sat on the bedside table. His jaw tightened.

He’d spent the afternoon staring at the wall, arms crossed, ignoring his mother's attempts at conversation. Each carefully chosen question felt like an incursion, a violation of his newly reinstated space. Dinner was a silent affair, the only sound the clinking of silverware against plates. He pushed the mashed potatoes around his plate, untouched.

“You’re not eating,” his father finally said, his voice hesitant.

He just shrugged, meeting his father’s gaze for a fleeting moment before returning his attention to the unappealing meal. He felt a burning sensation in his chest, a refusal to comply.