Gemotions

The scent of garlic and oregano filled the kitchen, a familiar comfort. But tonight, it felt different. Amelia watched Marco effortlessly maneuver around the stove, humming a tune she didn't recognize. He was making pasta, a dish they often shared. He’d started speaking in Italian more often lately, and she’d caught him studying a textbook the other day. It was as if he was trying to create some distance.

She leaned against the counter, arms crossed. "What's that you're singing?" she asked, her voice deliberately casual.

Marco turned, his expression carefully neutral. “Just a song my Nonna used to sing.” He returned to his cooking, his movements efficient, his back to her.

Amelia felt a surge of resentment, a strange desire to disrupt the peace. She grabbed a handful of chips from the pantry and began munching on them loudly, each crunch a small act of defiance.