Gemotions

The cafe was small, cramped. Steam hissed from the espresso machine like a disgruntled serpent, and the aroma of burnt coffee hung heavy in the air. Amelia clutched her lukewarm latte, the ceramic burning her palms. Then, from the corner, a voice, a guitar. Her guitar. The chords, the arrangement – it was hers. Her song, "Crimson Rivers." Her breath hitched.

Her vision swam. The clatter of cutlery, the murmur of conversations, all receded as the music swelled. She felt a cold sweat break out across her forehead. The singer’s voice, a woman’s, was smooth, confident. Amelia's stomach lurched. She felt utterly unmoored, like the ground beneath her feet was dissolving.

"Excuse me," she choked out, her voice barely a whisper, to the server who was clearing a table. “Can you… can you ask them to… to stop?” She couldn't breathe. Her hands trembled, spilling the coffee. She felt like she was going to collapse.