Gemotions

He hated the silence. It amplified every creak, every groan of the old house. The floorboards seemed to whisper secrets, things he didn’t want to hear. He’d jump at every unfamiliar noise, his hand instinctively reaching for the security chain on the door. He’d added it himself.

He avoided his parents' eyes at dinner. Their forced cheerfulness felt laced with something unpleasant. He couldn't quite place it, but it made his stomach clench. He mumbled his thanks and hurried to his room, locking the door behind him.

He knew they were talking about him, about *it*. He felt it, a palpable pressure, a judgment that settled in his bones. He pulled the curtains closed, cutting off the view. Better to be alone, safe from their unspoken accusations.

The air in the room felt thick, oppressive. He ran his hands over his skin, checking, just in case. They were always watching.