Gemotions

He sat on the worn couch, staring at the ceiling. The apartment felt vast and echoing, even with the music filling the air. He hadn't spoken to anyone in days. The guitar strumming was an attempt to keep something, anything, going in his life.

Someone knocked, a firm, rapid beat. The landlord, Mr. Thompson. The same complaints, the same weary expression.

"Sorry, Mr. Thompson," he muttered, as the door shut. He turned the music down. It grew so quiet, he could hear the faint hum of the refrigerator. The silence, like a physical presence, pressed down on him.