Gemotions

The familiar squeak of the front door opening sent a jolt through Michael. He was sitting on his childhood bed, the mattress sagging under his weight, staring at the faded band posters that still adorned the walls. He hadn’t realized how much the scent of his parents’ house, a mixture of pot roast and laundry detergent, had imprinted itself on his memory.

He heard his mother calling his name from downstairs. His hands began to sweat. He closed his eyes, and the memories came in a rush, a montage of adolescent rebellion and awkward family dinners. He hadn’t felt this exposed in years.

He ran a hand through his hair, the strands catching on the remnants of his old guitar pick. The familiar weight of the past pressed down on him, and he knew, with a certainty that settled like a stone in his stomach, that he was back where he belonged... and nowhere at all.