Gemotions

He stared at the blank screen, the cursor blinking accusingly. The deadline loomed, but the words wouldn't come. Mark’s fingers drummed a frantic rhythm on the desk. He felt a need to break free, to move, to *do*. Anything but sit.

He went to his mother's old room, now a storage space. The room was stuffy. He opened a closet, and his gaze landed on a box, slightly ajar, with her handwriting on it: "My School Days." He pulled it out, and the contents spilled onto the floor: perfectly preserved book reports, art projects, and science experiments. The details, the effort, made him feel… something. He quickly closed the box and looked away, a fresh burst of internal urgency pushing him towards the door.