Gemotions

He stared at the old photograph, the edges softened with age. He’d found it tucked away in a box in the attic: himself, a skinny kid with scraped knees, and Sarah, her hair a riot of sunshine, perched on a swing set. He’d brought it to her, a hopeful offering, a key to unlock the past. She'd looked at the picture, her expression blank, and said, "I don't remember you."

He hadn't slept properly since. He paced his apartment, restless energy churning inside him. The silence of the apartment was deafening, broken only by the frantic beat of his own heart. He picked at the corner of the photograph, a small piece of paper tearing loose as he ran his fingers over it, over her face.

Every surface in the apartment seemed to gleam in the dim light, the dust motes dancing in the air like mocking reminders of what had once been. He felt a hollowness spreading, a space carved out where happy memories should be.