Gemotions

The air in the gallery was usually a haven for Eleanor, but today the atmosphere felt stifling, the walls closing in. She’d been obsessively straightening the artworks, as if the physical act could somehow ward off the intrusion. Her movements were jerky, her eyes darting from one object to another.

The letter lay open on her desk, its stark black ink a constant challenge. The words, so carefully chosen, detailed the hurt she had inflicted. The memories, usually banished, now clawed at her from the recesses of her mind.

She ran a hand over her forehead, pushing back a stray strand of hair. She felt a tightness in her chest, a feeling of being suffocated by the past. The letter was a crack in the carefully built facade of her life, and she didn’t know how to mend it.