Gemotions

The fluorescent lights of the office hummed, a relentless drone that mirrored the turmoil inside Mark. He stared at the spreadsheet on his screen, numbers blurring, each cell a tiny, empty box reflecting his own feeling of emptiness. He was supposed to be preparing the quarterly report, but the task felt monumental.

He sighed, the sound escaping him as a puff of air. Across the room, Sarah was organizing files, her movements crisp and efficient. Mark found himself watching her, the way she moved, the ease with which she handled the chaos of their shared workspace. He wished he possessed her composure.

"Hey, Mark," Sarah called, her voice sharp and clear, "Did you ever go to Camp Clearwater?"

A jolt ran through him. Clearwater? He used to think about that place all the time. He mumbled something unintelligible. Sarah’s expression softened. "My counselor, Mrs. Gable, swore the mosquitoes were the size of small birds."