Gemotions

Rain lashed against the windows of the coffee shop, mirroring the tempest within Leo. He hunched deeper into his worn leather jacket, the collar pulled high. He'd come here, as he did most Tuesdays, to scribble lyrics in a notebook and try to find some semblance of peace, some small spark of creative fire. Instead, he found the radio, blaring a rendition of "Crimson Sky," a song he poured his soul into, now sung by someone named "Starling."

A bitter taste bloomed in his mouth. He gripped the pen so tightly it threatened to snap. The woman’s voice was, objectively, flawless, soaring with a practiced ease. But the melody, the words he had bled over, felt… diluted. He wanted to scream. He wanted to run. He just wanted it to stop.

He closed his eyes. The coffee tasted like ash.