Gemotions

He’d sworn he wouldn't do this. He'd promised himself, a dozen times, that he would not go back there, not yet. But here he was, in his childhood bedroom, the air thick with the scent of lavender and regret. His father’s things had been packed away for months, but Thomas couldn't bring himself to touch them. Until now.

He pulled open a drawer. Inside, nestled amongst neatly folded shirts, was a manila envelope. Inside the envelope, the letter. His father's letter. The one he’d written before quitting the job he hated, the one that had been the catalyst for everything that followed. The handwriting was his father’s; bold, clear, yet somehow fragile. He ran his thumb across the words: “I am no longer able to give my best, nor am I prepared to…”

His chest felt tight, constricting his breath. The room seemed to shrink, the walls closing in. He felt a burning in his eyes, a sensation he hadn't experienced since he was a small boy. His hands clenched into fists, the knuckles turning white. The words on the page blurred.