Gemotions

The music was *his*. He knew it, every intricate note, every carefully crafted chord progression. He’d spent years honing the melody, his fingers flying over the strings of his guitar. Now, "Echoes of the Night" was playing on every radio station, earning the slick, grinning producer millions.

He sat in the dimly lit bar, nursing a whiskey, the ice clinking a lonely rhythm. He felt a deep, cold ache settle in his chest.

He should be celebrated, he should be up on that stage. He'd written the music, he'd poured his heart into it, but his contribution was now just a footnote. He swirled the amber liquid, the bitterness mirroring his own.