Gemotions

The flickering fluorescent lights of the storage unit cast long, dancing shadows, making the cramped space feel even more oppressive. David tapped his foot impatiently. His wife, Maria, had insisted on this, saying it was a good way to "declutter." He was not a fan of decluttering. He found a shoebox overflowing with letters, among other things. He sighed, a sound that carried the weight of a thousand sighs.

He picked up a letter addressed to his then girlfriend, now his wife. His teenage handwriting was barely legible. He opened it and started reading. "My dearest Maria..." he began. The words felt foreign on his tongue. He had to physically restrain himself from ripping it in half.

He gritted his teeth, the muscles in his jaw working overtime. “I feel like she just doesn’t understand me…” he read. The teenage melodrama was making his skin crawl. He tossed it back into the shoebox with a forceful flick of the wrist. He'd never felt so... irritated. He needed air.