Gemotions

He kept pacing. That was the only thing he could do. The living room, a space he had once thought of as comfortable, now seemed like a fishbowl, every movement on display. He’d told his parents he was fine, that the move was just temporary, but the lie tasted metallic on his tongue.

The worn carpet squeaked under his boots with each circuit, each step a protest against his current reality. His father was in the recliner, the television flickering with the news, the same news he'd been avoiding for months.

"Find a good job, you will," his father stated with a gruff voice, though the words seemed intended for the ceiling. He stared at the floorboards, trying not to react. He fiddled with the zipper on his jacket; it felt as though it was stuck on a loop.