Gemotions

He felt a familiar weight in his chest as Mrs. Gable from next door approached. It was a suffocating pressure, like a physical manifestation of the world’s ceaseless demands. She wanted to talk about the tree. The one on their shared boundary. He knew what was coming.

"David, the roots are cracking my patio," she announced, her voice already laced with the complaint he anticipated. He nodded, focusing on the chipped paint of his front door. He felt a deep weariness in his bones.

He should object. He should fight for the tree, for the green canopy that filtered the harsh sun, for something that had stood still for years. But a listlessness had settled over him, a sense of… well, it didn’t matter. He just wanted her to go away.

"Sure," he mumbled, his voice flat. "Whatever you want." He couldn’t be bothered to engage the part of him that felt a tightening in his throat.