Gemotions

"Honestly," muttered Daniel, rubbing his temples. He looked at the blueprints spread across his dining room table. Another layer of drywall, another unforeseen problem. He hadn't slept properly in weeks. The hammering next door was a constant, insistent rhythm. It started at dawn and persisted until well into the evening, a relentless percussion that burrowed into his skull.

He had promised his kids a trip to the zoo this weekend, but the thought of the logistics, of the noise, of anything beyond the quiet, controlled space of his own home, was overwhelming. "I can't," he whispered, collapsing into his chair. He picked up his phone, scrolling through pictures of his kids. He would, somehow, just get through today.