Gemotions

The first nail gun burst echoed through Eleanor's apartment. She flinched, even though she knew it was coming. They’d been talking about it for weeks, the Millers next door, the grand renovation. Eleanor sighed and sank further into the worn cushions of her couch. Her fingers, usually nimble and restless, now lay limp in her lap. She hadn't bothered to water the dying fern on the windowsill in days.

The hammering started, a relentless rhythmic beat. It felt like the soundtrack to her own stalled existence. Eleanor considered, for the hundredth time, the job application she'd left unfinished on the coffee table. She reached for it, then pulled her hand back. What was the point? The energy required seemed insurmountable.

Her phone buzzed. It was a text from her sister, asking if she was coming to brunch. Eleanor typed a response: "Maybe. Not sure." She stared at the message, the words blurring. Then she deleted it and shut off her phone. She felt the sudden weight of silence settle around her.