Gemotions

He stood in the doorway, blocking the weak autumn sun, a bulky silhouette. Maya recognized the hesitant knock, the hesitant cadence of his voice. “Do I know you?” he’d asked, a polite question in a voice that held no recognition of the girl who used to braid his hair.

She hadn’t answered, her lips pressed into a thin line. He had no memory of the summer they’d spent building sandcastles, of the secret language they’d invented to pass notes in class, of the shared trauma of a lost dog. It was as if she'd been erased from his life entirely.

She watched him, her arms folded, as he started to scan the name tags on their mailboxes. A wave of bitterness rolled through her. How easily he'd forgotten her. How easily she was discarded. “I’m glad you moved on,” she heard herself say, her voice as hard as flint.