Gemotions

The elevator ride up was longer than usual, each floor a fresh pang of recognition. He noticed every crack in the hallway walls, every faded photograph in the lobby. The building felt like a living creature, and it was about to die.

Back in his apartment, he sat at his desk, staring at the blank page in front of him. He was a writer, but the words wouldn’t come. The very act of writing, of creating, felt pointless now.

He decided to walk, wandering the city streets. The familiar sights, the bustling crowds, seemed unreal. He felt an ache he couldn't name, a hollowness that seemed to swallow everything he did.