Gemotions

The track felt like a prison. Liam ran a slow lap, his usual stride now heavy and labored. The team had been announced, and his name was not among the chosen few.

Each footfall was a dull thud against the rubber surface, a rhythm of failure. The air tasted of regret, the familiar scent of the track, now laced with an acrid bitterness.

He stopped, his lungs burning. He hadn't noticed the sun setting, casting long, mournful shadows across the field. He took a seat on the bench. He just sat there.