Gemotions

The fluorescent lights of the gymnasium seemed to buzz with a new, unwelcome intensity. Coach Miller’s words hung in the air, a blunt and brutal pronouncement. “I’m sorry, Michael, but you won’t be making the team this year.” Michael, chest tight, felt a heat bloom in his cheeks. He blinked, focusing on the scuff marks on his worn basketball shoes.

He mumbled a terse, “Okay, Coach,” his voice barely above a whisper. He wanted to scream. Wanted to argue. Wanted to demand an explanation. But the words were trapped, lodging like a physical barrier in his throat.

He turned, the weight of a hundred unseen eyes pressing down on him. The air felt thin, difficult to breathe. He gathered his things, his movements jerky and hurried, as if trying to outrun a pursuing shadow.