Gemotions

The weight of the unopened boxes in the garage felt symbolic. Mark, his face pale, pushed them around with his foot. He could barely muster the energy to unpack. Every morning, he woke up with a feeling of dread, a hollow ache in his chest.

His dad, always a man of few words, had clapped him on the shoulder earlier. "It'll get better, son," he’d said gruffly. But the words offered no comfort. He just shrugged, unable to speak, the lump in his throat too large.

He walked into the kitchen, the scent of his mother's cooking wafting through the air. He wasn't hungry. The silence of the house magnified his inner struggles. Outside, the world kept moving, indifferent. He was left in the wake.