Gemotions

The mountain of laundry loomed, a physical manifestation of his anxieties. He’d barely unpacked, and already the clean clothes felt like an impossible task. He’d promised to help, to contribute, but the sight of the folded towels, still warm from the dryer, sent a wave of nausea over him.

His father’s booming voice, calling from the kitchen, "Son, are you alright? Breakfast is ready," bounced off the walls. He swallowed hard, trying to quell the panic rising in his throat. He just needed a moment, a second to breathe, but his chest felt constricted, as if a weight were pressing down.

He walked into the kitchen, the sunlight blinding after the dimness of his room. The table was set, the smell of bacon filled the air, and his mother was already talking about the upcoming holidays. He felt a lump form in his throat, and the world seemed to tilt on its axis. He picked up his fork and stared at the food.