Gemotions

Eliza dragged herself through the park, the spring sunshine doing little to lift her spirits. Her shoulders hunched, her gaze fixed on the cracked pavement. Rejection letters had piled up on her kitchen counter, each one a tiny stab wound. The vibrant green of the trees felt muted, the birdsong a meaningless chatter.

Then, from the nearby bandstand, came the opening chords of "Crimson Sky," her most personal song. A brass band was playing it, all blaring trumpets and a clumsy tuba. She stood rooted to the spot, a knot forming in her stomach.

She felt a strange disconnect, like watching a bad dream unfold. The band was off-key, the tempo rushed. Her lyrics, once imbued with such passion, now sounded hollow. She clenched her fists, her knuckles white. She wanted to yell, to tell them they were ruining it. But instead, she simply turned and walked away.