Gemotions

"I need to move," I said, my voice sounding strained. My grandmother's old sewing room felt like a prison. The smell of dust and mothballs only served to amplify the tightness in my chest. All that work, all that time, wasted. My self-cleaning oven design, a lost cause.

I started grabbing things, tossing them haphazardly into a box: threads, buttons, scraps of fabric. My hands were shaking. I had to get away, to escape this suffocating feeling. I needed wide open spaces, something to distract me from the gnawing in my stomach. I had to get *out*.