Gemotions

He ran his hand over the worn leather of the steering wheel, the gesture a nervous habit that had taken hold during his long years of isolation. The apology letter, delivered by a messenger service, felt like a snake in his mailbox. A venomous thing that left him with a coldness in his gut. His studio apartment, normally a source of comfort, suddenly felt smaller, the walls closing in. He slammed the car door shut and headed back inside.

The words, penned in elegant calligraphy, detailed the transgression he had lived with, the betrayal that had cast a long, dark shadow. He read the apology over and over, his jaw tightening. His fingers curled around the letter, the paper crinkling under the pressure of his grip. He felt the phantom weight of the past pressing down. A lifetime of avoiding public spaces, of working from home, felt like a waste. A wasted breath.