Gemotions

The bustling arcade, usually a source of joy for Mark, had become a prison. He scanned the crowded room, his eyes darting from face to face. The message from “RetroGamer2000” — “I’m here, in the corner. Come say hello” — had turned the game into one he couldn’t win.

His heart hammered against his ribs like a trapped bird. He ran his hand through his hair, a nervous gesture he repeated several times. He felt exposed, stripped bare. His carefully cultivated online persona was a lie, a carefully constructed façade.

He turned to leave, then hesitated. The arcade lights were too bright, the music too loud, the sense of dread too overwhelming. He retreated, leaving his chance at an interesting meet behind him.