Gemotions

The sun seemed to glare with a harshness I hadn't noticed before, reflecting off the polished surface of Mr. Schmidt's car. He stood there, by the shared fence, gesturing toward the ancient oak. "The branches are dropping too many leaves," he said, his voice a pleasant, yet insistent tone. "It's a lot of work."

I wanted to speak, to protest, but my throat seemed constricted. A feeling of dread, cold and clammy, spread through my limbs. I felt the familiar urge to retreat, to disappear. The world seemed to tilt on its axis. The trees in my yard were my refuge. The world felt like it was closing in. I could only stand in silence.