Gemotions

He stared at the boxes stacked in the hallway. They were a physical manifestation of his failure, his inadequacy. The scent of his mother's floral perfume, usually comforting, felt cloying in the stale air.

The simple act of lifting one, of making a start, felt impossible.

“Liam, are you home?” his father called, his voice echoing from the den.

He wanted to tell them, to explain, to just be left alone for a while. Instead, he just stood there, the weight of everything pressing down on him, his limbs weighted and reluctant. He’d barely made it through the door and the prospect of interaction was almost unbearable.