Gemotions

He sat on the park bench, watching the leaves swirl in the autumn breeze. The sky was a bruised purple, mirroring the state of his spirit. He had to get out of the house. He needed to *do* something.

A busker down the path began to play. The opening bars were instantly recognizable. *His* song, rearranged, reinterpreted. Lighter. Brighter. The music, once a source of comfort, now felt like a taunt.

He clenched his jaw, the muscles in his neck taut. He got up and walked in the opposite direction, the busker’s melody fading with every step he took, but the hollowness in his chest remained.