Gemotions

The paper crackled in Eleanor’s trembling hands. Sunlight, sharp and unwelcome, sliced through the blinds, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air. Her breath hitched. Twenty years. Two decades since the fight, the silence, the abrupt severing of a friendship she'd cherished. The letter, penned in faded ink, felt like a phantom limb, a reminder of the hurt that had stubbornly refused to heal. She dropped the letter on the table, the sharp *thwack* echoing in the otherwise quiet room, and turned her back on it. Her jaw clenched; a dull ache settled behind her temples.

She poured herself a glass of water, the liquid sloshing over the rim of the glass. The ice cubes clinked together like tiny, mocking bells. She sat down, but couldn't bring herself to drink. The words on the page – the fragile, inadequate words of apology – seemed to burn a hole through the wood. She scrubbed a hand across her face, smearing the remnants of sleep across her cheeks. The memories, unwanted and unwelcome, surged forward.