Gemotions

He found the card wedged between bills. The paper was thick, embossed with gold lettering that screamed of forced merriment. He tossed it onto the overflowing counter, joining the pile of unopened mail he avoided. His chest felt constricted. His breath came in shallow, ragged gasps.

He considered making coffee, but the effort seemed monumental. The apartment felt smaller than usual, the walls closing in. He wandered from room to room, touching the familiar objects: the worn leather of the armchair, the dust-covered photograph on the mantelpiece, the silent TV. All these things, once comforting, now felt like shackles.

He’d agreed to the family barbecue. He’d promised to help his sister with the yard work. He’d signed up for the committee. He hated the life he'd built and the people he'd obligated himself to. The anonymous card felt like a punch in the face.