Gemotions

He hated the way his fingers fumbled with the key, the metallic clang echoing in the silence of the hallway. Each footstep on the worn linoleum felt amplified, a declaration of his failure. James inhaled, trying to regulate his breathing before his parents saw him.

His father was already in the living room, reading the paper. The scent of pipe tobacco, usually comforting, today felt like a judgement. He kept his gaze averted, avoiding eye contact.

"Morning, son." The gruffness in his father's voice scraped at James's already frayed nerves.

He mumbled a greeting, his throat tight. He moved towards the kitchen, as if searching for something. It gave him an excuse to avoid a direct answer when his mother asked, "Are you alright?" His shoulders were hunched, his head down.