Gemotions

The rhythmic clatter of his mother’s knitting needles filled the living room, a relentless percussion that grated on Mark’s nerves. He tried to focus on the television, but the vibrant colours and loud noises seemed to mock his inner turmoil. Each stitch seemed to echo the endless, repetitive loop of his negative thoughts.

He felt the prickling heat creep up his neck as she looked over at him. “You should get out more, dear,” she said, her voice soft, filled with a well-meaning concern that felt heavy on his chest.

He didn't reply. He hated the word "should." He hated the way she looked at him, with pity. He wanted to scream, to lash out, to break something, anything to shatter the suffocating normalcy.