Gemotions

Rain lashed against the windows of the art gallery, mirroring the storm brewing inside Elias. He stared at the woman across the room, at her flowing silk dress and the way she moved among the abstract paintings, a picture of sophistication. It was Clara, his childhood accomplice in every scraped knee and whispered secret.

He’d approached her, a knot of foolish hope twisting in his stomach. But the moment their eyes met, her expression was blank. "I'm sorry," she'd said, her voice a polished instrument he didn't recognize, "Have we met?"

Elias had felt the blood drain from his face. She’d looked right through him. He found himself walking toward an empty corner. He picked at a stray thread on his jacket. He watched her. Her entire existence, carefully curated, perfectly presented. This woman in front of him bore no resemblance to the girl who used to swing from the rusty swing set in their backyard. He needed air.