Gemotions

He held the list, his knuckles white. *Build a treehouse.* *Learn to cook Italian.* *Tell someone I love them.* His father had been a man of few words, of quiet routines. His chest felt constricted, as if a vise were slowly tightening. The list was a stark contrast to everything he thought he knew.

He stared out the window at the rain-swept garden, the familiar scene now seeming strange and distant. The feeling in his gut was one of complete and utter disruption, a deep sense of being turned upside down. He needed air. He opened the window, the cold breeze doing little to soothe his rising anxiety.