Gemotions

The rain lashed against the windows of the coffee shop, mirroring the storm brewing inside her. Each drop was a sharp, stinging reminder of a shared memory she could never quite reach. He sat across from her, the very image of Mark, the boy who taught her how to ride a bike. He was older now, with a different haircut, but it was him. Or was it?

She found herself gripping the edge of the table, her knuckles white. She leaned forward, the world around her tilting. "Mark?" she asked, her voice a small, wavering sound.

He frowned, his brow furrowing with a flicker of puzzlement. "I'm sorry," he said, his voice hesitant, "I don't think we've met." The rain seemed to intensify, the world outside becoming a blurred, swirling mass.