Gemotions

The photograph, creased and faded at the edges, lay on the table between them. It depicted them both, young and carefree, grinning into the camera. Sarah stared at it, her fingers tracing the outline of her younger self. Across from her, Mark stirred his coffee, his face a mask of polite curiosity.

"So," she began, her voice brittle. "Do you remember any of this?"

He glanced at the photo, then back at her, his expression neutral. "I'm sorry, I don't." He said it with a casual shrug, as if dismissing a minor inconvenience. Sarah felt a chill seep into her bones.

He picked up a sugar packet, tearing it open with practiced ease. Sarah watched the mundane act, a simple gesture that felt like a deliberate act of rejection. The room seemed to shrink, the walls closing in. The air thickened.

“We spent every summer together,” she said, her voice cracking. “Building sandcastles, swimming, exploring the beach…”

He gave her a polite, questioning look. “I honestly don't remember.”

Sarah abruptly stood up, pushing her chair back with a loud scrape. She fled from the table, from the memories, from the pain.