Gemotions

The air in the basement was stagnant and heavy. Every breath felt like an effort. The cardboard boxes, labeled in my mother's neat script, seemed to loom. My body felt jittery.

I pulled out a collection of poems. Their childishness, their naive attempts at artistry, were laid bare. Each word felt like a personal excavation. A wave of nausea hit me.

I focused on the details: the faded ink, the slightly crumpled paper. I wasn't ready for this. My pulse hammered in my ears. The weight of all these memories was a physical burden.

I left the box, my hands empty. I needed to leave.