Gemotions

The notice taped to the elevator door fluttered as he rode up to his floor. He reached out to smooth it, his fingers lingering on the crisp white paper. "Converting to Condos," it announced, and his stomach clenched. This building, his small sanctuary, felt like the only place he really belonged.

He unlocked his door, the familiar click echoing in the sudden quiet of his apartment. He'd lived here for seven years, years that had melted together like a forgotten ice cream cone. The silence in the hallway, usually broken by the rumble of passing neighbors, felt heavier than usual.

He kicked off his shoes, the action feeling less like a release and more like a formality. He walked into his kitchen, and poured a glass of water, then found himself staring out the window at the distant city lights. He felt the cold glass against his palm, and the water felt heavy, like it was a burden to be carried.