Gemotions

A bead of sweat trickled down Michael's temple as he read the invitation. The glossy paper felt slick, almost alien, in his calloused hands. Fifteen years. Fifteen years since he’d last seen any of them. His throat constricted, making it difficult to swallow.

He dropped the invitation onto the desk, leaning back in his chair. The world suddenly felt small, claustrophobic. The meticulously organized files, the clean lines of his office, seemed to close in around him, pressing him with their order and normalcy. He felt an urge to flee, to be anywhere else.

His fingers drummed a nervous tattoo on the desk. He thought about the life he’d built, the image he’d constructed. He couldn't go. He just couldn't.