Gemotions

He found himself pacing his cramped apartment, the worn rug a familiar comfort beneath his feet. The memory, or lack thereof, of Sarah’s recognition of him burned in his chest. Each stride felt short, each breath shallow. How could she not recall building that rickety treehouse with him?

He yanked open the refrigerator, rummaging for something, anything, to quell the storm brewing inside. He slammed the door closed. Nothing. The cold air offered no solace. He had to calm down. He picked up his phone, scrolling through old photos. He saw a picture of them; two kids grinning with missing teeth, clutching the treehouse's wooden frame. He threw the phone to the ground. The screen shattered. He didn’t care.