Gemotions

The rain hammered against the bus window, mirroring the relentless rhythm of disappointment inside him. He slouched lower in his seat, the cheap vinyl digging into his back. The bus radio, usually a source of cheerful noise, was now a taunting presence. Then it hit him. *His* song. Not his version, but a slick, polished cover. The singer's voice, devoid of the grit and vulnerability he’d poured into it, floated through the speakers. He curled his fingers into fists, the knuckles white against his jeans. He stared at his reflection, a blurry stranger in the glass, and a wave of something akin to shame washed over him. He felt hollowed out.