Gemotions

The old, wooden guitar lay abandoned in the corner of Liam's small, cluttered room. Dust coated the strings, reflecting the dim light of the single lamp. Liam hadn’t touched it in months. His hands still ached to play, but he found it impossible.

A jaunty guitar riff floated from the speakers of his neighbor's apartment. He knew the song instantly. It was his. The version he heard was more polished, faster, the notes precise. A completely different arrangement to the one he had envisioned.

Liam sank into his battered armchair, his gaze fixed on the dust motes dancing in the air. The music felt alien. It highlighted the emptiness of his own space, the silence that had become his constant companion. He felt a deep, profound sadness, a weight he could not define. He closed his eyes, the memory of his own fingers dancing over the fretboard a phantom sensation.