Gemotions

The garage felt cold and damp. Michael stood amidst the debris of his past, the boxes containing his schoolwork. It was a chore he'd been avoiding, but his father kept reminding him of the deadline to clear out the house. The thought of sorting through the stacks of paper made him feel… off.

He bent to open a box. Inside, neatly stacked, were his first attempts at creative writing, the words childish but earnest. He scanned them, a feeling of unease growing in his stomach. The sheer quantity of it, the sheer *volume* of his history made him dizzy.

He backed away, bumping into a shelf. The world seemed to wobble. He struggled to breathe, the air feeling thin and inadequate. He gripped the edge of a workbench for support, his knuckles white. This was something he could not handle.