Gemotions

He found the note tucked inside his mailbox, a scribbled message from Mrs. Gable, his pottery instructor. “Gone. Thanks for everything.” He slammed the door, a tremor running through him. He hadn't been to a class in months. The clay, the kiln, the slow, mindful process – all felt like a waste of time. He’d been focusing on his painting.

He stared at his hands, calloused from the gardening he had given up. They had seemed so clumsy and unsure in the class. Now, they felt too large, out of proportion, useless. He ran water over them, scrubbing until the skin felt raw.

The apartment suddenly felt too small, the walls closing in. He should have made the effort. He should have shown gratitude. He felt a deep, pervasive sense of inadequacy settle over him. He sank onto his couch, the silence of the room amplifying the echo of his failures.