Gemotions

The sunlight felt oppressive. He found himself standing outside her house, the one she’d grown up in, the place they’d spent countless summer days. He’d rehearsed what he'd say, what he'd do, how he'd react. He wanted her to remember the bike rides, the forts in the woods, the secrets they swore to keep.

He rang the doorbell. She opened the door, a polite smile on her face. Her smile faltered.

"Can I help you?" she asked. The question was polite, but her eyes held a spark of suspicion.

The planned speech evaporated. He felt a flush creep up his neck. "It's… David," he mumbled, the name sounding inadequate.

She tilted her head, a gesture he remembered well from their childhood. “Sorry, I don’t think I know you.”

He stepped back, as if burned. He wanted to scream. Instead, he just mumbled a hasty apology and turned, his shoulders slumped, and walked away. The sunlight suddenly felt like a physical weight on his back.