Gemotions

The late afternoon sun cast long shadows across the park, but Amelia barely noticed. She sat slumped on the bench, the chipped paint cold against her fingers. Her takeout coffee had gone cold hours ago, the bitter taste mirroring the hollowness inside. She absently swirled the dregs, the world outside her feeling muted, as if viewed through a dirty window. The vibrant autumn leaves seemed like a play staged for someone else.

Her phone buzzed, a text from Mark. "Running late, babe! Traffic is a beast. Still at the gallery?" She sighed, the air escaping her lungs in a slow, almost imperceptible puff. The gallery, a place she’d looked forward to visiting a week ago, now felt like another chore.

A woman with fiery red hair, a stark contrast to Amelia’s own drab attire, approached. "Excuse me," she said, her voice bright and melodic. "Are you waiting for Mark?" Amelia’s stomach lurched.