Gemotions

Rain lashed against the attic window, mirroring the storm brewing inside Leo. He shoved another box across the dusty floor, a grunt escaping his lips. Empty beer cans rattled in the recycling bin downstairs, evidence of his Friday night spent wallowing. He’d told his mom he was going out. Instead, he’d stayed in, brooding.

His fingers brushed against something brittle. He pulled out a faded manila folder, its corners softened with age. “Leo Miller,” it read, in his mother’s familiar handwriting. He opened it. A painstakingly colored drawing of a spaceship, complete with construction paper flames, stared back at him. His fifth-grade self, apparently, had a penchant for purple.

He slumped onto an old trunk, the anger quickly morphing into something else, something heavier. The carefully preserved assignments stretched before him: book reports with crayon illustrations, history projects with dried macaroni glued onto the timelines. He ran a hand through his hair, a knot forming in his stomach. Why?