Gemotions

He slammed the door, the sound echoing through the sterile apartment. It was a new apartment, new life, new… everything, or so he had thought. Now, staring at the small, leather-bound book in his hands, he felt every old wound reopen. Inside, his mother had carefully preserved every single thing he'd ever written in middle school. The angsty poetry, the half-baked stories, the awkward attempts at humor – all laid bare.

He wanted to scream. He wanted to rage. He wanted to break something. His pulse hammered in his ears as he flipped through the pages. The handwriting was his own, yet the words felt alien, like someone else’s shame. He clenched his jaw, the muscles in his neck tightening. He pictured her, hunched over these things, meticulously cataloging his failings. The apartment, once a symbol of his independence, now felt like a gilded cage.