Gemotions

The cafe was packed. Amelia hunched in the corner, nursing a lukewarm Americano. The clatter of cutlery and muffled conversations usually soothed her, but today, they grated on her nerves. The source? The amateur night. She hadn't wanted to come, but her friends had practically dragged her. Now, the house band was tuning up, and the lead singer was… well, he was holding her guitar. She felt a tightening in her chest.

He started playing. The familiar chords of "Crimson Dreams" filled the room. Amelia's song. It wasn’t perfect, of course – she'd written it. He stumbled on a chord progression, a slight but jarring alteration. Her fingers twitched. She wanted to scream out, to leap onstage, to… what? Correct him? It was absurd.

The singer, oblivious, plowed on. He butchered a bridge she'd spent weeks perfecting. She gripped her mug so hard her knuckles turned white. It was *her* song, not his. She wouldn't give him the satisfaction of looking, of acknowledging him in any way. She would sit here, and then she would leave. End of story.