Gemotions

He watched the dust motes dance in the late afternoon sun, a silent ballet in the room that had once been his. It smelled the same—a mix of old books, lavender sachets, and his mother's perfume. Liam sat on his childhood bed, the springs protesting his weight. He’d told everyone he was moving back for a “fresh start.” He'd said it with a forced enthusiasm that rang hollow even to his own ears.

His phone buzzed, a text from an old friend asking if he wanted to go for a beer. He ignored it. He was too embarrassed. He was supposed to be *doing* things, not sitting here, staring at the peeling wallpaper. He leaned back against the headboard, feeling a familiar tightness in his throat, and stared at the ceiling. The ceiling knew how far he'd fallen.