Gemotions

He paced the living room, the letter clenched in his fist. Sunlight streamed through the blinds, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air. The words on the page blurred, swam before his eyes. He stopped to gaze at the framed picture of his daughter, her young face beaming back at him. It was a letter he had written to his ex-wife years ago.

*“I don’t know how to do this anymore,”* he read, his voice tight. The paper felt like a burning coal in his grip. The memories flooded back, the arguments, the silences, the slow unraveling of their lives. He felt suffocated, as if the walls were closing in on him.

He crumpled the letter, tossing it onto the table. The anger in his chest tightened the muscles in his jaw.