Gemotions

The world swam. Sarah ran her hand through her hair, clutching at her scalp as if she could pull the anxiety out through the roots. Her mother’s attic, normally a source of fond memories, now felt like a prison. The boxes were stacked precariously high, threatening to topple over and bury her in a sea of childhood traumas.

Each paper was a time capsule, meticulously sealed and preserved. Her mother's careful penmanship, the endless notes in the margins, the teacher’s red ink critiques—all of it. She couldn’t breathe.

She kicked at a box, sending papers fluttering into the air like startled birds. A photograph, wedged in among the clutter, tumbled out. A picture of her as a toddler, smiling at the camera. The smile was jarring. She couldn't feel it anymore. It was all a lie, she thought.