Gemotions

Thomas tapped his foot against the worn wood of the attic floor. The air hung thick and dusty, carrying the scent of forgotten things. He’d found the account details tucked away in a shoebox, hidden beneath a pile of old love letters from his wife, Eleanor. He felt a surge of… something. Resentment? Disappointment? He wasn't sure. But he knew this: he wasn't going to acknowledge it.

He surveyed the space. He had been planning to organize the attic, but now, he found the task completely unappealing. He wasn’t going to move a single box. He certainly wouldn’t bring it up at dinner. He sat down on an old trunk, the dust coating his trousers. He felt a deep, stubborn refusal to acknowledge this thing at all.

He considered the old photographs scattered on the floor. He picked up a picture of him and Eleanor on their honeymoon. They looked so happy. He tossed it back onto the pile. The air grew still, the silence punctuated only by the distant sounds of traffic. He would not give Eleanor the satisfaction of hearing him mention it. Not yet.