Gemotions

"Remember that awful play?" Mark chuckled, eyes crinkling at the corners. He was recounting their high school production of *Hamlet*, their shared role of supporting castmates. He focused on the funny parts—the missed lines, the dropped props. The performance had been a train wreck.

Across the worn picnic table, David felt a lump form in his throat. He remembered the performance differently. He remembered the panic, the stage fright that seized him whenever he took a step to speak, the way Mark, seemingly oblivious, had offered pep talks instead of practice. The only words spoken between them were his reassurance that the show would go fine. The memory of Mark, self-assured and charismatic, making jokes while David stood frozen in the wings, gnawed at him.

David fiddled with the cap of his water bottle. His own palms were sweating, a familiar symptom of unease whenever Mark was around. The breeze rustled the leaves of the trees above them, their shadows playing across the table, adding to the tension.

"Yeah, awful," he agreed, his voice barely a whisper. He hated that he still felt this way. He never felt at ease. Never felt like he could speak his mind.