Gemotions

He glared at the half-eaten plate of lukewarm chicken and vegetables. His wife, bless her heart, had tried, but he couldn't stomach another bite. This whole thing with the records had changed everything. The bland, low-fat diet, the constant monitoring, the early mornings spent walking the track instead of sleeping in. All because of *someone else’s* lousy cholesterol readings. He felt the weight of it, the unending pressure to perform, to live a life not entirely his.

"Honey," he mumbled, pushing the plate away, "I think I'm going to head to bed."

His wife looked concerned. "Are you feeling alright, dear?"

He gave a tight nod, the knot in his stomach tightening with it. How could he explain the suffocating feeling, the sense of being trapped in someone else’s unwanted destiny? This whole thing was eating him up.