Gemotions

He found himself pacing the hallway outside the gallery, each footfall a sharp tattoo against the polished wood. The opening reception was a wash of faces, all clamoring to be seen, to be heard. But none of them were *her*. He’d spotted her across the crowded room earlier, her familiar laugh a sonic boom in the chaos, and his pulse had hammered against his ribs. Now, facing her, he felt a frantic need to occupy space.

"Remember that time we…" He began, then stumbled, the words catching in his throat like shards of glass. She looked at him with polite confusion. It was like he was a complete stranger speaking some obscure dialect.

"I… I'm sorry, do I know you?" she inquired, and he instantly knew it was lost. A jolt, like static electricity, ran through him. He reached out, his hand hovering mid-air, a phantom touch, before he shoved it into his pocket. He needed to get out, he needed to leave this place.