Gemotions

He stared at the letter, its aged paper brittle beneath his touch. It was addressed to his father, the man he'd spent his life trying not to be. He found it stuffed into a worn copy of *The Great Gatsby*, a book his father had adored. He'd always suspected the man's professed love of literature was more performative than genuine.

The letter was a confession, detailing his teenage angst, his fears, his dreams. A wave of heat flushed his face. He scoffed, a short, sharp sound. He remembered those years. They were a haze of apathy, punctuated by explosions of anger. He found it hard to see himself as the introspective, sensitive soul the letter portrayed.

He folded the letter. He thought he would burn it, but he knew he wouldn't. He looked at the window, at the setting sun that bled red and orange into the sky. He found himself doubting the words, the emotions.