Gemotions

Rain lashed against the windowpane, mirroring the torrent inside him. He cradled his mug of lukewarm tea, the warmth failing to penetrate the icy core of his being. The complaint, delivered in a clipped, formal tone, felt like a judgment. He was always doing something wrong.

He paced the confines of his small apartment, each footfall a heavy thud against the worn rug. He stopped at the window, watching the rain blur the streetlights. He’d just wanted to play his drums; just for an hour or so, lost in the rhythm.

He ran a hand through his hair, a gesture that seemed to carry the weight of the world. Why was everything always a battle? He felt the familiar ache in his chest, a deep hollowness that no amount of noise could fill.