Gemotions

The dust motes danced in the late afternoon sun, illuminating the empty attic. He'd spent weeks here, searching for the tangible proof he needed, the artifacts that would unlock his childhood best friend’s memory. Now, everything felt pointless, a waste.

He slammed the lid of the old trunk shut, the wood groaning in protest. He wanted to throw something, to scream, to lash out at the absurdity of it all. The photo albums, the letters, the forgotten toys, they were useless, nothing more than props in a play he was the only one performing.

He felt a throbbing ache behind his eyes, a sensation of pressure and unease. He picked up a worn teddy bear, squeezing it so hard his knuckles were white. The bear offered no comfort. He threw it back into the trunk, each movement stiff and robotic. He needed to be alone.