Gemotions

The cramped attic space was stifling. Sweat beaded on Liam's forehead as he navigated the maze of boxes and forgotten treasures. His sister had asked him to help sort through their late mother's belongings. It felt as though a large, invisible hand was squeezing his chest. Why was he even here? He didn’t want to be here.

He found a small wooden box. Inside, nestled amongst dried flowers and pressed leaves, was a letter. It was addressed to his brother, and written in his own adolescent hand.

He unsealed it, the paper brittle and fragile. "Dear Mark," he read, his voice flat. "I'm so fed up with..." He stopped. He felt his face flush. The childish petulance of his younger self was jarring. The words stung. He shoved the letter back into the box. He needed to get out of here. He needed *space*.