Gemotions

The flyer announcing the condo conversion lay discarded on the floor, next to a half-eaten bag of chips. Maya, curled on her sofa beneath a pile of blankets, stared at the ceiling. The ceiling fan creaked, a monotonous rhythm that underscored her current inertia. Anything that required movement was simply out of the question.

The idea of sorting through her belongings, of packing, of even *thinking* about moving, seemed an insurmountable obstacle. She had planned to reply to her friends, but even those thoughts were too much to bear. She closed her eyes. The prospect of change, of any kind, was exhausting.