Gemotions

A cold knot formed in Marcus's stomach. The weathered wooden crate, unearthed during a landscaping project, held a collection of things he'd forgotten, and yet, they felt… personal. He wasn't sure he liked that. He crouched beside it, the late afternoon sun casting long shadows across the freshly turned soil.

Inside, were several poorly written poems. *His* poems. He remembered them now: awkward rhymes about unrequited love and adolescent angst. A flush crept up his neck, and he tugged at the collar of his shirt.

He noticed a small, folded piece of paper. He picked it up and read: "Marcus is a loser". He slammed the lid of the box shut, the sound a sharp crack in the otherwise quiet garden. He stalked back inside the house, the taste of bile rising in his throat.

His wife, Emily, looked up from her book, her brow furrowed. "Everything alright, honey?" she asked. He just grunted, grabbing a beer from the fridge. He’d never felt so... exposed.