He ran a hand through his thinning hair, the gesture a nervous tic he’d developed in the last few months. David felt as though his chest was being squeezed in a vise. The office was silent, save for the rhythmic clicking of keyboards, but the quiet offered no solace. The looming deadline for the project hung over him like a suffocating blanket.
He was rummaging through the chaotic clutter of his desk when he found it: a letter, yellowed with age, its creases telling of countless folds and refoldings. It was addressed to his father, a man he hadn’t spoken to in years. He almost threw it away, but curiosity, and a strange yearning, held him back.
The letter was filled with youthful bravado, with promises of success and a desperate plea for approval. The words leapt off the page, each one a testament to his younger self's ambitions. David felt a wave of dizziness wash over him. The weight of his current failures felt magnified, crushing. He reread the words, the vibrant ink mirroring the current despair within him.
He crumpled the letter in his hand, a small, violent action, and leaned back in his chair, staring at the ceiling, wondering if he would ever feel less burdened.