Gemotions

The old journal lay open before him. Inside, nestled between dried flowers, was a letter he'd written to himself, years ago. The words, aimed at a future version of himself, were critical, demanding. “Dear Future Me, you should…” A fresh wave of displeasure washed over him.

He slammed the journal shut, the sound sharp in the quiet room. The afternoon light cast long shadows, making the space feel cramped and confining. He felt a familiar knot in his stomach, a tension that tightened with every passing moment. He wanted to tear something, anything, into shreds.