Gemotions

Michael stared at the list, the paper trembling in his hand. His father’s handwriting, neat and precise, felt like a slap in the face. "Learn to play the saxophone." He hadn't known his father ever *wanted* to play. He hadn't known much at all, it seemed.

He slumped onto the threadbare couch, the cushions offering little comfort. The house felt too quiet, the absence of his father a palpable thing. He picked at a loose thread on the armrest, his fingers clumsy and restless.

The world seemed muted, colors drained of their vibrancy. He felt a hollowness in his chest, a deep ache that no amount of distraction could soothe.

“Write a novel,” the next item demanded. He almost laughed. His father, a meticulous accountant, had harbored artistic ambitions? The world tilted on its axis, and Michael felt the pull of gravity in his gut.