Gemotions

The attic air hung thick and dusty, catching in Leo’s throat. He coughed, a ragged sound swallowed by the silence. He’d told himself he was just looking for his old baseball glove. Now, surrounded by boxes overflowing with his childhood, he felt a pressure building in his chest, a weight that made it hard to breathe. He pulled out a faded folder, the label handwritten in his mother's meticulous script: “Leo – Grade 2, Class Assignments.”

He flipped it open, and his stomach lurched. The painstaking drawings, the awkward handwriting, the comments in red ink from Mrs. Peterson. He remembered the feeling of failure, the sting of being corrected. He slammed the folder shut, his hands shaking. He wanted to scream.