Gemotions

The cafe air, thick with the scent of burnt coffee and hushed conversations, suddenly felt suffocating. Amelia stared across the small, round table at Liam. His eyes, the exact shade of the summer sky they'd spent countless hours under, held no flicker of recognition. “So, you’re telling me,” she said, her voice tight, “that you have absolutely *no* memory of the treehouse?” She leaned forward, hands gripping the table's edge.

He shrugged, a gesture that felt like a slap in the face. “I’m sorry, Amelia. Sounds like fun, though.” The way he smiled – polite, practiced – grated on her nerves. She wanted to hurl the latte at him, watch the creamy liquid stain his perfectly pressed shirt.

She straightened, forcing a lightness into her tone that she didn't feel. “Well, I certainly remember it. And the time you fell out and broke your arm? Classic Liam.” She watched his brow furrow, a fleeting moment of confusion. Good. Let him feel a little something.