Gemotions

The apartment felt like a tomb. Maya stared at the overflowing trash bag, then back at the half-eaten pizza box. The apartment was supposed to be hers, a symbol of independence. Now, she was back in her childhood bedroom, and the trash bag mocked her.

She heard her mother’s footsteps, the familiar rhythm a counterpoint to the silence. "Maya, sweetie, are you sure you don’t need help with those boxes? They look heavy." Maya didn't turn around. Her shoulders were rigid, and the silence between them was thick with unspoken words.

She'd promised herself she wouldn’t cry. But the thought, unbidden, formed itself in her mind. She clenched her jaw. She wouldn't ask for help, even if the boxes contained the weight of her entire world.