Gemotions

He’d driven three hours, just to be here. A dive bar on the outskirts of nowhere. The neon sign buzzed erratically outside, casting a flickering, sickly glow. He’d barely found a seat before the band began. Then, the opening riff. His song. His lyrics, "Ghost of the Highway." He felt his heart hammer against his ribs, a frantic drumbeat against the silence that threatened to engulf him.

His fingers clawed at the worn wood of the table. He felt a sudden, fierce heat radiating through his chest. He couldn’t look away. The singer, a burly man with a trucker hat, belted out his words, distorting the melody, but the bones of the song, the very soul of it, were undeniable.

He needed air, he needed to leave, he needed… something. He stood abruptly, knocking over his chair. The noise, the sudden movement, made him feel lightheaded, detached. He stumbled towards the exit, his vision blurred.