Gemotions

He stared at the handwritten notes. They were crisp, clean, the ink a deep, unwavering black. The handwriting of a person confident, organized, and focused. His mother's high school history notes. He felt a sharp, unexpected pang.

His own notes were a mess, scribbled in a rush, filled with careless errors. He'd always struggled with organization, with focus.

“Look at this penmanship,” he muttered, his voice barely audible. He felt a throbbing pulse in his temples.

He found himself unconsciously straightening his posture, attempting to mimic the neatness of his mother's script. He failed.