Gemotions

He stared at the ceiling, the muted sunlight of the afternoon failing to penetrate the gloom. A knot tightened in his chest, making it hard to breathe. The argument with Chloe, the one about the treehouse, still echoed in his mind. He’d built it, painstakingly, for her tenth birthday, a secret haven. Now, according to her, he’d been the one who’d lost the key, the one who’d forgotten it, the one who’d ruined it.

He pushed himself up, but his legs felt heavy, as if made of lead. He wandered into the kitchen, the aroma of stale coffee doing little to lift his mood. He replayed the scene in his mind: her face, the way her lips twisted, the accusation in her eyes. It was like he was the villain in her story. He knew he didn't feel at all happy.