Gemotions

Sarah's new apartment gleamed in the afternoon sun. I sat on her ridiculously plush velvet couch, the fabric practically mocking the threadbare condition of my own sofa. The scent of fresh flowers and expensive perfume filled the air. My own apartment always smelled faintly of burnt toast.

She described her "consulting" work – vague, high-powered words that left me feeling like a simpleton. I found myself abruptly interrupting, trying to steer the conversation back to more familiar territory, a local band we both liked. My enthusiasm felt forced, a poor substitute for her easy confidence.

Later, I walked home, shoulders slumped. I checked my phone, re-reading the email about the grant I'd applied for, the grant I desperately needed to secure the funds for my own project. The silence of my small apartment felt particularly heavy that evening.