Gemotions

The constant sound of the lawnmower, a low, persistent drone, was the final straw. It signified Mr. Davies' flawless, emerald green lawn, a green that was a testament to his wealth. He'd never seen so much green in his life. He found he now avoided looking at his own patchy, brown lawn.

He’d started avoiding eye contact with Mr. Davies, an almost palpable tension coiling in his chest whenever they crossed paths. The simple act of saying "hello" felt like a monumental effort. He’d cross the street to avoid him.

One night, unable to sleep, he pulled out his old photographs and threw them to the floor, the memories of better times a source of pain. He buried his face in his hands, feeling utterly undone.