Gemotions

The old baseball glove, worn and cracked, lay in her lap. Dust motes danced in the late afternoon sunbeam slanting through the attic window. She carefully traced the stitching with her fingertip, recalling the sting of a hard-hit line drive, the triumphant shouts of her team. The memory made her smile, a soft, wistful curve of her lips. She hadn't thought about this glove in years.

A forgotten box of childhood photos sat nearby. She reached for it, her fingers brushing against the cardboard. The lid creaked open, releasing a scent of yellowed paper and something else... something familiar. A sudden flutter in her chest.

She picked up a faded school picture. There he was, Mark, the bane of her existence, his face still etched with the same cocky grin. Beneath the picture, a pamphlet: "Mark Harrison, MA, LPC - Thriving Minds Therapy." He was a therapist? The thought both perplexed and oddly soothed her.