Gemotions

The champagne flute felt heavy in Amelia's hand, despite being mostly empty. Her smile, plastered on for hours now, felt like a separate entity from her face, aching in the corners. The reception hall throbbed with music and laughter, a cacophony that grated on her nerves. She just wanted to find a quiet corner, maybe the deserted patio she had seen earlier.

Suddenly, a voice, intimately familiar, cut through the din. "Amelia? Fancy seeing you here."

She turned, her carefully constructed composure cracking. It was Mark. And he looked, infuriatingly, good. Tanned, smiling, his dark hair neatly styled.

"Mark," she managed, her voice sounding thin and reedy, "Hello." The butterflies she'd thought she had finally squashed were suddenly fluttering again, a frantic dance inside her chest.