Gemotions

He sat on the park bench, the cold seeping through his jeans. The setting sun cast long shadows, painting the playground in a wash of orange and purple. Mark watched the children playing, their laughter ringing out with an easy joy he no longer possessed. He had brought a small, worn photograph. A picture of himself and Sam, their faces smeared with mud, grinning triumphantly after a particularly epic backyard battle.

He saw Sam earlier that day, at the hardware store. He'd been with a woman, shopping for paint. They'd chatted easily, a casual familiarity radiating between them. He had approached cautiously, a knot forming in his throat as he held the photo out to him. Sam had blinked at it, then offered a polite smile, a gesture of incomprehension. "I don't think I know you," he had said, his voice polite but distant.

The park grew dim as the last light faded. He crumpled the photo in his hand. The feeling inside, a hollow space filled with regret, had expanded once more. He rose, pulling his coat tighter around him. The playground, once a vibrant hub of activity, was now quiet, almost abandoned.