Gemotions

He stared at the blueprints spread across the kitchen table. The fence, a neat rectangle around his small plot. A symbol of control, he told himself, of order. He ran a finger along the dotted line, tracing the future barrier. He imagined the way the sunlight would filter through the gaps, the way the wind would whisper against the wood.

His wife, Maria, watched him, her brow furrowed. "Are you sure about this, David?" she asked, her voice quiet. He didn't look up.

"It'll be good for the kids," he mumbled, his voice tight.

He'd been avoiding her gaze lately. He knew she was feeling it too. The lack of space. The same routines. The way the days blurred into one another. He knew she needed to get out, but he felt unable to move.

The thought of more people, more noise, more interaction, made his chest constrict. He sighed, rubbing his temples. He just wanted to be safe. To protect. And to stay.