Gemotions

He sat on the porch swing, the rhythmic creak of the wood a mournful sound. The air hung heavy with the scent of honeysuckle, but the fragrance offered no solace. Just this morning, he had run into Jamie at the local library, excited to see the person who was once his closest friend. Jamie’s reaction was polite, a gentle, “I'm sorry, I don’t think we’ve met.” He felt a chill creep into his bones, despite the warmth of the sun. The swing's gentle motion became a reminder of all the lost time, all the forgotten shared moments. He stared at his hands, as if they belonged to someone else.