Gemotions

He found it taped to the underside of his mother's old vanity. The paper, brittle with age, listed things he’d always known she dreamed of, things he hadn’t thought about in years. “See the Northern Lights.” “Write a novel.” “Learn to dance the tango.” He'd been staring at the same spreadsheet for three weeks, his eyes blurring with the numbers.

He slumped onto the vanity bench, the wood cold against his skin. His shoulders felt tight, his neck stiff, as if he’d been perpetually tense. He hadn't touched a paintbrush in months, even though it was all he thought about. He ran a hand through his hair, a nervous gesture he’d picked up from his father.

He read the list again. He felt a flicker of something, a tiny spark of defiance against the crushing monotony. He reached for his phone, scrolling through travel sites, picturing himself under a sky ablaze with color. He could almost feel the cold air on his face.