Gemotions

Michael fiddled with the strap of his messenger bag, the worn leather cool against his sweaty palms. He hated these gatherings, the forced nostalgia, the shared sorrow that felt oddly performative. His childhood home, reduced to a pile of rubble in his mind, was an intensely private space, not a spectacle. His younger sister, Sarah, was chattering animatedly to their mother about the “good old days,” their voices carrying on the breeze.

He stared at the blank space where the house had stood. He wanted to be anywhere else. A knot formed in his stomach, and he focused on the cracks in the pavement, counting them. Each one felt like a judgmental eye.

He’d almost tripped on the uneven ground as he’d walked towards the site. He really must be more coordinated. He wished he could just take off his glasses and wipe his face and somehow disappear.