Gemotions

"I was a fool," I muttered, pacing my cramped living room. I’d spent months gossiping with the other neighbors about Mr. Chen, the quiet man who kept his windows perpetually shuttered. I’d made cruel jokes about his "isolation," assuming he was a recluse living a life of quiet desperation.

Then, the delivery truck arrived. Antique furniture. Expensive artwork. And then, the moving van pulled up. He was going. I saw his quiet wave of goodbye, and I knew what I had done.

I went and I bought his house. I don’t know why, but I needed to. Now I feel like I'm trapped.

My legs felt heavy, as if made of lead. The apartment seemed suddenly small, suffocating. The air tasted stale, and the cheap carpet felt like a punishment.