Gemotions

He found it tucked into a well-loved copy of *Moby Dick*, a slim, yellowed envelope addressed in a delicate hand. The bookstore's quiet hush felt suddenly stifling, the air thick with anticipation. It was a note, dated 1948, confessing an impossible love. His pulse hammered against his ribs; it was a rhythmic assault.

He backed into a corner, oblivious to the other patrons. His vision blurred, the words on the page blurring into an incomprehensible mess. He felt a surge of energy that made him want to rip it apart, to make the truth disappear.

He ran a hand through his hair, his fingers tangling in the strands. He needed to be alone, to understand what he was reading. He was shaking, a tremor that ran from his toes to his scalp.