Gemotions

He stood in the doorway, a stranger in a familiar frame. Sarah’s vision blurred. Her hand flew to her mouth, stifling a gasp. Mark, her Mark, the boy who'd carved their initials into the oak tree in her backyard, looked at her with polite confusion. He was the same, and yet, completely foreign.

Her pulse hammered in her ears, a frantic drumbeat against the sudden silence. She took a step back, her legs threatening to give way. The scent of his aftershave, the same one he’d worn in high school, triggered a flood of memories she couldn't control.

“Do…do you not remember?” The question escaped her in a ragged whisper. His brow furrowed. He seemed, at least, slightly confused. This made her head begin to swim.

The pristine white walls of the gallery closed in on her, the polished concrete floor reflecting a distorted image of her own unraveling face.