Gemotions

Her fingers, usually gentle, were now drumming against the tabletop, a relentless beat against the silence of the cafe. Clara watched Marco across the small, round table. He was leaning forward, laughing, his head tilted. The air crackled with a foreign language.

It was Italian, of course.

Clara hadn’t known he was learning it. He’d never mentioned it. He was chatting animatedly with the barista, his words flowing with an unexpected ease that scraped against her nerves. Each inflection, each gesture, felt like a deliberate performance, a calculated act. Her vision blurred, and the cafe suddenly felt too bright, too loud.

She gripped her water glass, knuckles white. The ice clinked softly, a tiny, insignificant sound in the face of his growing comfort. He’d been holding something back. He'd been sharing with someone else.