Gemotions

The letter arrived during lunch break. Michael recognized the embossed crest on the envelope: the law firm where he'd been a junior associate. He'd been fired, spectacularly, five years prior after a messy mistake. Now, an apology.

He felt the unwelcome thud of his heartbeat against his ribs. He excused himself, going to the men's room and locking himself in a stall. The memory, as vivid as the day it happened, played on repeat in his mind: the scathing words of his boss, the whispered judgments of his colleagues.

He leaned against the cold tile, the letter still unopened in his pocket. He clenched his jaw, battling the urge to shred the thing, to obliterate the reminder of his failure. It was the way people had looked at him back then, that look of pity, that made him want to hide.