Gemotions

Michael sat hunched over the old wooden desk in his childhood bedroom. The room was just as he’d left it, years ago – a testament to a life he’d outgrown. He was rummaging through a box of forgotten things, a box he had avoided for years. He had found a letter he had written, but never sent, to his childhood sweetheart.

His eyes scanned the words, full of clumsy declarations of love, of promises he hadn’t been able to keep, of a naive and overwhelming devotion. He could almost feel the blush on his cheeks, the tremor in his hands.

Michael crumpled the letter in his fist, a bitter taste rising in his throat. He wished he could go back, redo it all. The weight of regret settled heavily on his chest. He felt leaden, slow.