Gemotions

The dusty, leather-bound journal felt heavy in Maya's hands. It was a gift from Mr. Hawthorne, her history teacher, at the end of last term. Inside, he'd written, "For a brilliant mind, a future historian. Keep writing." She'd poured her heart into it, filling it with notes, observations, and her own historical analysis.

Now, she'd heard he had simply left the school. No assembly, no final goodbyes. Just an empty classroom and a few hurried whispers. She felt a cold prickle, like ice spreading through her veins.

She tossed the journal onto the bed. Her lip curled. He must have known how much she looked up to him. He must have known how much his approval had meant. She kicked at the edge of the bedspread, the movement jerky and uncontrolled. It was as if she were insignificant, a mere footnote in his grand narrative.