Gemotions

The small, square envelope lay on the doormat, almost invisible. He picked it up, feeling a familiar dread. The handwriting was recognizable, from someone he hadn't seen in decades. *“I was wrong.”* The simplicity of the sentence felt cruel.

His apartment was dark, the curtains drawn against the relentless sunlight. He preferred the shadows. He had become adept at avoiding eye contact, at keeping to himself. He felt a deep sense of… inadequacy.

He crumpled the letter in his hand. The paper crackled. He had built walls around himself, bricks of avoidance and silence. The letter was a hammer, chipping away at those walls.