Gemotions

He had to sit down. Right there, in the middle of the library, amongst the hushed whispers and the scent of old paper. The headline on the university's website screamed at him: *From Application to Aspiration: A Literary Journey*. Underneath, a familiar name. He gripped his water bottle so hard his knuckles turned white. It was his. The essay.

He was stunned into inaction. He hadn't thought about that essay, about that vulnerable version of himself, in years. He’d moved on, become a different person. Or so he thought. A chill ran down his spine, followed by a warmth that spread outwards from his chest.

The irony wasn't lost on him. He, a writer, was now incapable of forming a coherent thought. He felt utterly exposed, as if the very fabric of his being had been laid bare for everyone to examine. He felt a ridiculous need to shield his face with his hands.