Gemotions

The antique letter opener trembled in Martha's hand. Dust motes danced in the single ray of sunlight piercing the gloom of her living room. It had been ten years. Ten years since the incident, ten years since she'd stopped going out, stopped *doing*. The parchment felt brittle, like it might crumble at the slightest touch. It was from Eleanor. The Eleanor who'd been her best friend, the Eleanor who'd so cruelly… well, the Eleanor. Martha’s fingers tightened on the letter opener. The kitchen clock ticked, each second a hammer blow against her chest.

She finally slit the wax seal.

The words swam before her. A confession of youthful selfishness. A plea for forgiveness. Martha let the letter fall to her lap, the paper rustling softly. Her breath hitched. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic bird trapped in a cage. What did it all mean? Could she possibly… *move on*? The thought was terrifying. It meant letting go of the familiar, of the comfortable, of the endless loop of memories she’d cultivated around her hurt.