Gemotions

He heard the tap on the glass, a persistent rat-a-tat that echoed the restlessness gnawing at him. It was Mr. Henderson, his neighbor, with a proposal: "Just a small patch, enough for some tomatoes. Always wanted a garden, you know? Your land's ideal." Liam rubbed his temples. The request was reasonable, the idea benign. He felt like he was walking through thick mud, each footfall a monumental effort. He mumbled an agreement, already anticipating the inevitable: the weekly check-ins, the shared harvest, another obligation in a life already overflowing with them.

Later, he found himself staring at the unfinished novel on his desk, the words blurring before his eyes. It was the same sentence, the same paragraph, for weeks. The manuscript lay like a forgotten burden. He felt the weight in his chest, a constant, heavy thing. He closed the laptop, the clicking sound a small, insignificant noise swallowed by the thick air of the room.