Gemotions

The box felt heavy. Daniel carried it, a strange, sinking sensation in his chest, from the storage room into his own bedroom. He'd found it while helping his father clear out the garage. It was a time capsule of mediocrity, every single pathetic book report, every spelling test, every drawing of a misshapen dog.

He pulled out a crumpled book report, his childish handwriting now seeming grotesque. He hadn’t even realized he'd written his name wrong. He threw it back in the box, the lid banging shut. The room felt suddenly small, the walls closing in. He sat on his bed and stared at the floor.