Gemotions

The house seemed to breathe, and he felt every breath, every creak, every shift in the old structure. He'd agreed to this, sure, but now, trapped between his parents' well-meaning advice and their unwavering routines, he felt a crushing sense of confinement.

The smell of his mother’s cooking, usually a comfort, now felt cloying, a reminder of the expectations simmering beneath the surface. Each meal, each forced conversation, was a trial of patience and forced smiles. He found himself avoiding her gaze.

He retreated to the spare bedroom, which he now shared with his childhood trophies, and closed the door. The familiar scent of mothballs and dust was suffocating. He leaned against the cool surface, unable to find the energy to face another day.