Gemotions

The attic air felt thick, stifling. Jessica knelt before the boxes, her hands hovering over the lid. Her mother's label, "My Little Scholar," mocked her. Everything was there: perfect handwriting samples, art projects, and meticulously corrected essays. A coldness settled in her chest.

She picked up a handwritten poem she had written at age eight, the words filled with a naive idealism. The memory of the playground bullies taunting her, of the feeling of being different, was as fresh as the day it happened.

She swallowed hard, her throat constricting. She felt trapped. The attic, once a place of adventure, had become a prison.