Gemotions

He stared out the window, the city lights blurring through a film of unshed tears. The takeout container of cold noodles sat untouched on the counter. Dinner, like everything else tonight, was a chore. He felt leaden.

He’d found it tucked away in a shoebox under his bed: a letter to his father, written when he was a teenager. He never sent it. The words, filled with anger and accusation, now seemed childish and petty.

His reflection in the glass showed a face etched with weariness. He ran a hand through his hair, the gesture listless. He wished he could go back, rewrite the letter, say the things he'd always wanted to say.