Gemotions

The notice, a stark white rectangle clipped to the peeling paint of her front door, seemed to throb in the dim hallway. She ripped it down, then clutched it so tightly her knuckles were bone-white. Her cheeks burned. She’d been so proud of finally getting her own place, even if it was a cramped studio. Now, suddenly, she felt like a fraud. She crumpled the paper and shoved it deep into her already overflowing recycling bin.

Later, she avoided eye contact with Mrs. Gable from 2B in the elevator. Usually, she’d exchange pleasantries, maybe a comment about the weather. Today, she mumbled something unintelligible and stared at the floor indicator, willing the doors to open. Her stomach churned as though she’d eaten something rotten.

She replayed the terse phone call with the building manager, his voice clipped, business-like. "Condo conversion, effective immediately," he'd said. As if she was just another piece of furniture to be discarded.