Gemotions

The chipped mug trembled in Arthur’s grip, the lukewarm tea sloshing perilously close to the rim. He perched on the floral-print sofa, knees drawn up, watching his mother hum in the kitchen. Her voice, usually a comforting melody, grated on him today. Every creak of the floorboards as she moved felt like a personal accusation. He kept replaying their phone call from last week, the one where he'd admitted he was broke and needed a place to stay. Shame simmered in his stomach.

"Arthur, dear, are you alright?" her voice called, a sweet, forced note. He hated the way she always used that tone when she suspected something was wrong.

"Fine," he croaked, taking a shallow breath and taking a sip from the mug, the flavorless tea doing nothing to soothe his throat. He wished she would leave him alone. He wanted to scream. He wanted to run. Instead, he just sat there, meticulously counting the faded threads in the sofa cushion.