Gemotions

The paint on the walls was peeling. The apartment felt suffocating. The constant, repetitive beats he’d been making on the electronic drum kit offered a temporary reprieve. He'd lost interest in his art, in his friends, in everything except the drums.

A pounding on the front door. It was Ms. Ramirez, with her usual complaint. He knew the pattern, the rising irritation, the forceful demand for quiet.

He opened the door, his posture slumped. "I'm sorry, I didn't realize." He closed the door. He slumped onto the couch. He felt a deep sense of wrongness, of being off-kilter and not knowing how to get back on track.