Gemotions

He didn't want to talk about it. No. He couldn't. Ben quickly excused himself from the dinner table, pushing away his plate of spaghetti. The pasta suddenly seemed unappetizing, its familiar smell now a source of irritation. The well-meaning questions from his family were like needles poking at an open wound.

He retreated to his room and slammed the door. He threw himself onto his bed, the springs protesting his sudden weight. He stared at the ceiling, feeling an inexplicable pressure building in his head. The walls seemed to be closing in.