Gemotions

He slammed his fist on the table, scattering the half-eaten pizza. Liam glared at the drawing, propped up against the salt shaker. It was a crude sketch, but unmistakably the same tall, lanky figure he had conjured in his youth. The figure had always been a shadow, named "The Shifter." His niece, Maya, insisted the figure was her best friend.

"Maya, honey," he said, his voice strained, "where did you learn to draw this?" She just shrugged, her attention already diverted to a cartoon playing on the television. He felt the weight in his chest, a familiar pressure. It had been years since he'd thought of the Shifter, let alone felt it. He remembered the feeling of being watched, the constant need to please the silent form.

He retreated to the back porch, needing air. The evening breeze did little to cool the heat that was climbing up his neck. He felt exposed, vulnerable. The Shifter, once a friend, now felt like a secret he could no longer bury.