Gemotions

He stared at the peeling paint on his childhood bedroom door. His parents’ house felt more like a prison than a sanctuary. The silence was deafening, broken only by the ticking of the grandfather clock in the hallway.

He sat on the edge of the bed, the mattress sagging beneath him. His father had offered a gruff welcome. His mother had fussed. Both felt like a script. He wondered how long he could play along.

He ran his hand through his hair, a nervous gesture he hadn't realized he still possessed. He knew the questions were coming. The advice. The constant reminder of his failures. He closed his eyes.