Gemotions

The cardboard box felt heavy, a fitting burden for the morning he was enduring. He kicked at it, sending it skittering across the dusty attic floor. Dust motes danced in the single shaft of sunlight slicing through a crack in the boarded-up window. He’d promised to clear out the attic, a task he'd been putting off for months. Now, with the deadline looming, the chore felt particularly unpleasant. Inside the box, he found it: a meticulously labeled file, "David – Schoolwork." His jaw clenched.

He pried the lid open, a sigh escaping his lips. A wave of familiar, unwelcome memories washed over him as he saw the pristine papers, neatly stapled, dated, and graded. His seventh-grade science project, complete with a painstakingly drawn diagram of the solar system. He wanted to chuck it all out the window.

He picked up a book report on *To Kill a Mockingbird*, his own handwriting mocking him. He slammed the box shut. He needed coffee. Now.