Gemotions

The crisp white envelope felt heavy in Elias's hand, like a brick of regret. He’d recognized the handwriting immediately: Mrs. Henderson, the woman whose garden he'd decimated with a rogue soccer ball in eighth grade. He’d never forgotten the furious red flush that had blossomed on her face that day. His stomach clenched now, revisiting the memory.

He ripped open the letter, his fingers clumsy, and scanned the neatly printed words. Apology, she wrote. For not understanding a boy's youthful exuberance. He nearly choked on his own spit. He had to sit down, the world tilting slightly.

He imagined her, years older, maybe with grandchildren of her own. Had she always felt this? The ache in his chest made him want to disappear. He crumpled the letter and threw it into the trash, before fishing it back out and flattening it. He had to.