Gemotions

Eliza clutched the faded floral print of her skirt as she stared at the bear. It was a smaller version than she remembered, patched in places with mismatched fabric. The stuffing was lumpy. It was *him*. The very bear she'd abandoned in the attic when she hit her teens.

She felt her stomach twist as she remembered the way she’d scoffed at it, at childhood silliness. Her mother had pleaded with her to keep it, but Eliza had been too cool, too embarrassed. Her cheeks flushed.

Now, years later, she stood frozen, the harsh sunlight of the yard sale glinting off the bear's worn nose. She imagined the soft curve of its paw in her hand, the comforting pressure. She bit her lip.

"Five dollars," the vendor said, breaking into her thoughts. Eliza reached into her purse, her fingers fumbling with the bills. She felt a weight in her chest, a slow, heavy feeling she couldn't name.