Gemotions

The attic was a labyrinth of forgotten things, a place where the past often came back to haunt you. Mark knew this. He was cleaning it out, hoping to stumble upon some treasure to sell. Instead, he found a neatly folded letter addressed to his ex-wife, Emily. He'd almost forgotten the things he'd written to her, the things he'd never had the guts to say.

He unfolded it, his knuckles white. The letter was an elaborate, self-serving explanation of why their marriage had failed, a carefully constructed narrative that placed the blame squarely on her shoulders. His stomach churned. He had been a coward.

He crumpled the letter, then threw it against the wall. The paper barely stuck, sliding slowly to the floor. He wanted to scream. He wanted to undo all the mistakes he'd made. He wanted to go back.