Gemotions

The colossal sycamore, uprooted and splayed across Ms. Periwinkle’s yard, became a metaphor for his own life. The tree, once a vibrant presence, was now just wood. He, too, felt broken. He found himself avoiding eye contact with anyone.

The silence in his apartment had become almost unbearable, yet the thought of leaving, of facing the world, was more so. He hadn't changed clothes in two days. The unwashed dishes piled up in the sink. The dust was gathering.

He picked at a loose thread on his jeans, a pointless, repetitive action. He had to. He knew he had to, but the weight of doing anything, anything at all, was too much.