Gemotions

He slumped onto the porch step, the gravel biting into his jeans. The paperwork for the fence, thrust upon him by Mrs. Gable, lay crumpled in his fist. He could smell the freshly cut grass, a scent that usually brought contentment, now just a reminder.

His gut twisted. The idea of this new boundary, a barrier against what he once shared with his partner, felt suffocating. He watched the mailman stroll by, a casual wave he couldn’t return.

His fingers traced the worn wood of the step. The vibrant paint on his house seemed faded and dull, mirroring his inner state. He closed his eyes, the memory of her laughter a phantom echo in the silence.