Gemotions

Dust motes danced in the single shaft of sunlight slicing through the living room window. Leo ran a hand through his hair, the gesture more habit than necessity. He hadn't cut it since the news. The house, his grandmother's, felt heavy, weighted down with memories and mothballs. He'd been drifting lately, a leaf caught in a stagnant pond. The real estate agent's calls went unanswered, the boxes remained unpacked, the weight of everything pressing down. He sighed, the sound echoing in the silent room.

He’d paced the length of the kitchen, his stomach churning with unease, the linoleum cold beneath his bare feet. The chipped ceramic of her favorite teacup sat on the counter, untouched. He hadn't made tea in weeks. It was a ritual. It felt… impossible. Everything felt impossible. He opened the refrigerator, stared at the dwindling supply of groceries, then slammed it shut.