Gemotions

The scent of freshly baked bread filled the kitchen, a stark contrast to the emptiness inside Henry. He sat at the kitchen table, watching his mother, her movements efficient and practiced. He'd lost count of the days he had been home. He avoided her questions, her attempts at conversation. He was a ghost in his own life.

He picked at his food, the flavors muted, the textures bland. The feeling of being watched, of being judged, was oppressive. He felt like he was suffocating. He excused himself, wanting to escape the forced cheerfulness, the manufactured normalcy. He went to his room and sat alone, the silence amplifying the echo of his defeat. He felt like he was slowly fading away.