Gemotions

He stared at the overflowing trash bag in his hands, then at the meticulously organized recycling bins in his mother’s garage. He bit his lip, a familiar nervous habit. This wasn't how he’d imagined his life. He wasn’t supposed to be *back* here.

The cool, tiled floor felt cold against his bare feet. He shifted from foot to foot, unsure where to start. His mother’s voice, a little too loud, drifted from inside the house. He heard her moving around the kitchen, probably tidying up. He swallowed, imagining her disappointment.

His hands began to tremble as he hefted the bag into the designated bin. The plastic crinkled loudly. He felt a wave of cold rush over him.