Gemotions

Michael’s apartment felt small, the walls closing in on him after another rejection email. He’d retreated to his childhood home, a temporary refuge from the relentless tide of failure. There, in his mother’s perfectly organized office, he unearthed a box. Inside: every poem, every drawing, every painstakingly constructed diorama from his childhood.

He picked up a crayon drawing of a rocket ship, the lines wobbly and childish. He remembered the hours spent on it, the pride he felt. Now, all he felt was a tightening in his throat.

He flipped through a science project, the handwriting cramped and messy. He saw his mother's meticulous corrections, the red ink a harsh judgment. He balled his fists, the image of his mother’s face – always so encouraging, always so supportive – now replaced by a chilling realization: he was never good enough. He’d always felt like something was missing, some intrinsic quality he didn't possess.