Gemotions

The notification buzzed, a tiny blue circle on his phone. A name from the distant past stared back at him: Mark Thompson. He hadn’t thought of Mark in years, not really. Just a ghost of a memory, a phantom presence on the fringes of his childhood. He leaned back in his chair, the office lights suddenly seeming too bright. He reached for his glasses, cleaned them, then tapped the request. A photograph of Mark, older, but with the same cocky grin he remembered.

A rush of heat flooded his chest. He scrolled through Mark's profile. Photos of a wife, a couple of kids, a life he’d never known. He found himself tracing the lines of Mark's face, the slight crow's feet around his eyes, the subtle changes time had wrought. He suddenly felt the weight of his own years.

He reached for his coffee, the ceramic warm against his fingers. He remembered the treehouse they’d built, the secret code they’d used, the way Mark had always been the leader. He closed his eyes, recalling the sting of tears after Mark had pushed him from the tire swing. He almost reflexively flinched. He opened his eyes, and a single tear traced a path down his cheek. He had a sudden, aching urge to forgive.