Gemotions

The notice, a stark white rectangle, felt heavy in Amelia's hand. The glossy paper seemed to absorb the light in the hallway, leaving her in a pocket of shadow. She trailed her fingers along the banister, the wood rough against her skin, each splintered imperfection a tiny accusation. “Condominium conversion,” it proclaimed, and she felt the words press down on her chest.

She trudged back into her apartment, the familiar scent of old books and brewing coffee doing little to lift her spirits. Sunlight streamed in through the window, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air, but they only served to underscore the stillness. Amelia slumped onto the couch, the cushions swallowing her form. She stared out at the city, its energy feeling utterly foreign.

Her phone buzzed. It was Sarah, inviting her out for drinks. Amelia stared at the screen, a vague sense of obligation tugging at her. Answering would mean getting ready, going outside, talking. The thought, just the thought, made her want to burrow further into the cushions. She ignored the message and buried her face in her hands.