Gemotions

The cafe buzzed. A symphony of clinking cups, chattering voices, and the rhythmic hiss of the espresso machine pressed in on Amelia. She stared at the laminated menu, her own recipe, *Amelia’s Apple Crumble,* plastered with a photograph of something unrecognizable – *Chef Jean-Pierre's Parisian Fantasy.* A knot tightened in her stomach. She felt a shortness of breath, a constriction in her chest that made her want to flee.

The waiter, a fresh-faced teenager, approached. “Everything alright, ma’am?” he asked, his smile too bright.

“Fine,” she croaked, the word barely audible. “Just… admiring the menu.” She gestured weakly. The crumble. Her crumble. Sold now for double the price, with a fancy name, and praised as some kind of culinary masterpiece. She wished she had never left her tiny bakery.

She picked at the corner of a napkin, a nervous habit she hadn't realized she still had, and her vision blurred. It was all too much.