Gemotions

He’d always hated Tuesdays, and now, Tuesdays felt like cement blocks in his chest. Mark slammed his locker shut with unnecessary force, the metal echoing down the deserted hallway. The fluorescent lights flickered, adding to the feeling of wrongness that permeated the air. He’d followed her, Anna, for weeks now, building up the courage to say something. To remind her.

He’d finally caught her outside the library, books clutched to her chest. “Anna?” he’d asked, a tremor in his voice. She’d turned, her eyes wide and questioning, and he’d launched into their shared history, the treehouse, the summer camp, the secret code they used.

She’d stared back, her expression blank, her mouth forming a polite, “I’m sorry, I don’t…” The books in her arms seemed to weigh down his own arms, dragging them to the floor.