Gemotions

The realtor’s words, a polished, practiced spiel about “investment potential,” echoed in Elias’s mind. He sat on his worn couch, the cushions molded to the shape of his body, a familiar comfort he now realized was fleeting.

He reached for the remote, but his hand froze. He spent a long time watching the dust motes dance in the sunlight. It was a chore, picking up his things, and suddenly he felt very tired.

He wandered to the window, the city lights below blurring through a film of unshed tears. The thought of change, of progress, felt like a harsh wind tearing through his carefully constructed world.